PLAYS 


FIRST  SERIES 


THE  SILVER  BOX 

JOY 
STRIFE 


JOHN 

GALSWORTHY 


PLAYS 

FIRST  SERIES 
BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

VILLA    RUBEIN,  and  Other  Stories 
THE   ISLAND    PHARISEES 
THE   MAN    OF   PROPERTY 
THE   COUNTRY   HOUSE 
FRATERNITY 
THE   PATRICIAN 
THE   DARK   FLOWER 
THE  FREELANDS 

A   COMMENTARY 

A   MOTLEY 

THE   INN   OF   TRANQUILLITY 

THE   LITTLE   MAN,    and  Other  Satii 


PLAYS:  FIRST  SERIES 

niul  Separately 
THE   SILVER   BOX 
JOY 
STRIFE 

PLAYS:  SECOND  SERIES 

and  Separattln 
THE   ELDEST   SON 
THE   LITTLE   DREAM 
JUSTICE 

PLAYS:  THIRD  SERIES 

and  Separately 
THE   FUGITIVE 
THE   PIGEON 
THE   MOB 

A  BIT  O'  LOVE 


MOODS,    SONGS,    AND    DOGGERELS 
MEMORIES.      Illustrated 


PLAYS 

FIRST   SERIES 

THE  SILVER  BOX 
JOY 

STRIFE 


BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1916 


COPYRIGHT,  1909,  BT 
JOHN   GALSWORTHY 


SRLl 
URB 


Pfc. 


-l 


H.  GRANVILLE  BARKER 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SILVER  Box — A  COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS        i 

JOY — A  PLAY  ON  THE  LETTER  "  I "   IN  THREE 

ACTS          .......     81 

STRIFE — A  DRAMA  IN  THREE  ACTS  .         .         .  165 


THE  SILVER  BOX 
A  COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS 


PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

JOHN  BARTHWICK,  M.P.,  a  wealthy  Liberal 

MRS.  BARTHWICK,  his  wife 

JACK  BARTHWICK,  their  son 

ROPER,  their  solicitor 

MRS.  JONES,  their  charwoman 

MARLOW,  their  manservant 

WHEELER,  their  maidservant 

JONES,  the  stranger  within  their  gates 

MRS.  SEDDON,  a  landlady 

SNOW,  a  detective 

A  POLICE  MAGISTRATE 

AN  UNKNOWN  LADY,  from  beyond 

Two  LITTLE  GIRLS,  homeless 

LIVENS,  their  father 

A  RELIEVING  OFFICER 

A  MAGISTRATE'S  CLERK 

AN  USHER 

POLICEMEN,  CLERKS,  AND  OTHERS 

TIME:  The  present.  The  action  of  the  first  two  Acts  takes 
place  on  Easter  Tuesday;  the  action  of  the  third  on  Easter 
Wednesday  week. 

ACT  I.,  SCENE  I.     Rockingham  Gate.     John    Barthwick's 

dining-room. 
SCENE  II.     The  same. 
SCENE  III.     The  same. 

ACT  II.,  SCENE  I.     The  Jones's  lodgings,  Merthyr  Street. 
SCENE  II.     John  Barthwick's  dining-room. 

ACT  III.     A  London  police  court. 


CAST   OF   THE   ORIGINAL   PRODUCTION   AT 
THE    EMPIRE    THEATRE,    NEW    YORK 


JOHN  BARTHWICK,  M.P.     . 

MRS.  BARTHWICK 

JACK  BARTHWICK 

ROPER  .... 

MRS.  JONES 

MARLOW       .... 

WHEELER     .... 

JONES    

MRS.  SEDDON 

SNOW 

JULIUS  HOLDEN,  A  ") 
Police  Magistrate  j 
AN  UNKNOWN  LADY  . 

Two  LITTLE  GIRLS 

LIVENS 

CLERK  OF  COURT 
RELIEVING  OFFICER    . 
SWEARING  CLERK 
CONSTABLE    .... 

Policemen,  Clerks, 


Eugene  Jepson 
Hattie  Russell 
Harry  Redding 
William  Sampson 
Ethel  Barrymore 
William  Evans 
Anita  Rothe 
Bruce  McRae 
Fanny  L.  Burt 
James  Kearney 

Forrest  Robinson 

Mary  Nash 
j  Dorothy  Scherer 
(  Helen  Mooney 
Soldene  Powell 
Louis  Eagan 
.       M.  B.  Pollock 
John  Adolf, 
Harry  Barker 
and  others 


ACT  I 

SCENE  I 

The  curtain  rises  on  the  BARTHWICK'S  dining-room, 
large,  modern,  and  well  furnished;  the  window  cur- 
tains drawn.  Electric  light  is  burning.  On  the 
large  round  dining-table  is  set  out  a  tray  with 
whisky,  a  syphon,  and  a  silver  cigarette-box.  It  is 
past  midnight. 

A  fumbling  is  heard  outside  the  door.  It  is  opened  sud- 
denly; JACK  BARTHWICK  seems  to  fall  into  the 
room.  He  stands  holding  by  the  door  knob,  staring 
before  him,  with  a  beatific  smile.  He  is  in  evening 
dress  and  opera  hat,  and  carries  in  his  hand  a  sky- 
blue  velvet  lady's  reticule.  His  boyish  face  is 
freshly  coloured  and  clean-shaven.  An  overcoat  is 
hanging  on  his  arm. 

JACK.    Hello!    I 've  got  home  all  ri [Defiantly.] 

Who  says  I  sh  'd  never  've  opened  th'  door  without 
'sistance.  [He  staggers  in,  fumbling  with  the  reticule. 
A  lady's  handkerchief  and  purse  of  crimson  silk  fall 
out.]  Serve  her  joll'  well  right — everything  droppin' 
out.  Th'  cat.  I  've  scored  her  off — I  've  got  her  bag. 
[He  swings  the  reticule]  Serves  her  joll'  well  right. 
[He  takes  a  cigarette  out  of  the  silver  box  and  puts  it  in  his 
mouth]  Never  gave  tha'  fellow  anything!  [He 
hunts  through  all  his  pockets  and  pulls  a  shilling  out;  it 

5 


6  The  Silver  Box  ACT  i 

drops  and  rolls  away.  He  looks  for  it.]  Beastly  shil- 
ling! [He  looks  again.]  Base  ingratitude!  Abso- 
lutely nothing.  [He  laughs.]  Mus'  tell  him  I  've  got 
absolutely  nothing. 

[He  lurches  through  the  door  and  down  a 
corridor,  and  presently  returns,  followed  by 
JONES,  who  is  advanced  in  liquor.  JONES, 
about  thirty  years  of  age,  has  hollow  cheeks, 
black  circles  round  his  eyes,  and  rusty 
clothes.  He  looks  as  though  he  might  be 
unemployed,  and  enters  in  a  hang-dog 
manner.] 

JACK.  Sh!  sh!  sh!  Don't  you  make  a  noise, 
whatever  you  do.  Shu'  the  door,  an'  have  a 
drink.  [Very  solemnly.]  You  helped  me  to  open 
the  door — I  've  got  nothin,  for  you.  This  is  my 
house.  My  father's  name's  Barthwick;  he's 
Member  of  Parliament — Liberal  Member  of  Par- 
liament: I  've  told  you  that  before.  Have  a  drink! 
[He  pours  out  whisky  and  drinks  it  up.]  I  'm 

not     drunk [Subsiding     on     a    sofa.]     Tha  's 

all  right.  Wha  's  your  name?  My  name  's  Barth- 
wick, so  's  my  father's;  I  'm  &  Liberal  too — wha  're 
you? 

JONES.  [In  a  thick,  sardonic  voice.]  I  'm  a 
bloomin'  Conservative.  My  name  's  Jones !  My  wife 
works  'ere;  she's  the  char;  she  works  'ere. 

JACK.  Jones?  [He  laughs.]  There 's 'nother  Jones 
at  College  with  me.  I  'm  not  a  Socialist  myself; 
I  'm  a  Liberal — there  's  ve-lill  difference,  because  of 
the  principles  of  the  Lib — Liberal  Party.  We  're 
all  equal  before  the  law — tha  's  rot,  tha  's  silly. 
[Laughs.]  Wha'  was  I  about  to  say?  Give  me  some 
whisky. 


sc.  i  The  Silver  Box  7 

QONES  gives  him  the  whisky  he  desires,  to- 
gether with  a  squirt  of  syphon.] 

Wha'  I  was  goin'  tell  you  was — I  've  had  a  row  with 
her.  [He  waves  the  reticule.]  Have  a  drink,  Jones — • 
sh  'd  never  have  got  in  without  you — tha  's  why  I  'm 
giving  you  a  drink.  Don'  care  who  knows  I  've 
scored  her  off.  Th'  cat!  [He  throws  his  feet  up  on 
the  sofa.]  Don'  you  make  a  noise,  whatever  you  do. 
You  pour  out  a  drink — you  make  yourself  good  long, 
long  drink — you  take  cigarette — you  take  anything 
you  like.  Sh  'd  never  have  got  in  without  you. 
[Closing  his  eyes.]  You  're  a  Tory — you  're  a  Tory 
Socialist.  I  'm  Liberal  myself — have  a  drink — I  'm 
an  excel' nt  chap. 

[His  head  drops  back.  He,  smiling,  falls 
asleep,  and  JONES  stands  looking  at  him; 
then,  snatching  up  JACK'S  glass,  he  drinks 
it  off.  He  picks  the  reticule  from  off  JACK'S 
shirt-front,  holds  it  to  the  light,  and  smells 
at  it] 

JONES.  Been  on  the  tiles  and  brought  'ome  some 
of  yer  cat's  fur.  [He  stuffs  it  into  JACK'S  breast 
pocket.] 

JACK.  [Murmuring.]  I  've  scored  you  off!  You 
cat! 

QONES  looks  around  him  furtively;  he  pours 
out  whisky  and  drinks  it.  From  the  silver 
box  he  takes  a  cigarette,  puffs  at  it,  and 
drinks  more  whisky.  There  is  no  sobriety 
left  in  him.] 

JONES.  Fat  lot  o'  things  they've  got  'ere!  [He 
sees  the  crimson  purse  lying  on  the  floor.]  More  cat's 
fur.  Puss,  puss !  [He  fingers  it,  drops  it  on  the  tray, 
and  looks  at  JACK.]  Calf!  Fat  calf!  [He  sees  his 


8  The  Silver  Box  ACT  i 

own  presentment  in  a  mirror.  Lifting  his  hands,  with 
•fingers  spread,  he  stares  at  it;  then  looks  again  at  JACK, 
clenching  his  fist  as  if  to  batter  in  his  sleeping,  smiling 
face.  Suddenly  he  tilts  the  rest  of  the  whisky  into  the 
glass  and  drinks  it.  With  cunning  glee  he  takes  the 
silver  box  and  purse  and  pockets  them.]  I  11  score  you 
off  too,  that 's  wot  I  '11  do ! 

[He  gives  a  little  snarling  laugh  and  lurches  to 
the  door.  His  shoulder  rubs  against  the 
switch;  the  light  goes  out.  There  is  a  sound 
as  of  a  closing  outer  door.] 

The  curtain  falls. 
The  curtain  rises  again  at  once. 

SCENE   II 

In  the  BARTHWICK'S  dining-room.  JACK  is  still  asleep; 
the  morning  light  is  coming  through  the  curtains. 
The  time  is  half-past  eight.  WHEELER,  brisk  per- 
son enters  with  a  dust-pan,  and  MRS.  JONES  more 
slowly  with  a  scuttle. 

WHEELER.  [Drawing  the  curtains.}  That  precious 
husband  of  yours  was  round  for  you  after  you  'd  gone 
yesterday,  Mrs.  Jones.  Wanted  your  money  for  drink, 
I  suppose.  He  hangs  about  the  corner  here  half 
the  time.  I  saw  him  outside  the  "Goat  and  Bells" 
when  I  went  to  the  post  last  night.  If  I  were  you  I 
would  n't  live  with  him.  I  would  n't  live  with  a  man 
that  raised  his  hand  to  me.  I  would  n't  put  up  with 
it.  Why  don't  you  take  your  children  and  leave 
him  ?  If  you  put  up  with  'im  it  '11  only  make  him 
worse.  I  never  can  see  why,  because  a  man's  mar- 
ried you,  he  should  knock  you  about. 


sc.  ii  The  Silver  Box  9 

MRS.  JONES.  [Slim,  dark-eyed,  and  dark-haired; 
oval-faced,  and  with  a  smooth,  soft,  even  voice;  her  man- 
ner patient,  her  way  of  talking  quite  impersonal;  she 
wears  a  blue  linen  dress,  and  boots  with  hoks.]  It  was 
nearly  two  last  night  before  he  come  home,  and  he 
was  n't  himself.  He  made  me  get  up,  and  he  knocked 
me  about ;  he  did  n't  seem  to  know  what  he  was  saying 
or  doing.  Of  course  I  would  leave  him,  but  I  'm 
really  afraid  of  what  he  'd  do  to  me.  He  's  such  a 
violent  man  when  he  's  not  himself. 

WHEELER.  Why  don't  you  get  him  locked  up? 
You  '11  never  have  any  peace  until  you  get  him  locked 
up.  If  I  were  you  I  'd  go  to  the  police  court  to- 
morrow. That 's  what  I  would  do. 

MRS.  JONES.  Of  course  I  ought  to  go,  because  he 
does  treat  me  so  badly  when  he  's  not  himself.  But 
you  see,  Bettina,  he  has  a  very  hard  time — he  's  been 
out  of  work  two  months,  and  it  preys  upon  his  mind. 
When  he  's  in  work  he  behaves  himself  much  better. 
It 's  when  he  's  out  of  work  that  he  's  so  violent. 

WHEELER.  Well,  if  you  won't  take  any  steps 
you  '11  never  get  rid  of  him. 

MRS.  JONES.  Of  course  it 's  very  wearing  to  me ;  I 
don't  get  my  sleep  at  nights.  And  it 's  not  as  if  I 
were  getting  help  from  him,  because  I  have  to  do 
for  the  children  and  all  of  us.  And  he  throws  such 
dreadful  things  up  at  me,  talks  of  my  having  men  to 
follow  me  about.  Such  a  thing  never  happens;  no 
man  ever  speaks  to  me.  And  of  course  it 's  just  the 
other  way.  It 's  what  he  does  that 's  wrong  and 
makes  me  so  unhappy.  And  then  he  's  always 
threatenin'  to  cut  my  throat  if  I  leave  him.  It 's  all 
the  drink,  and  things  preying  on  his  mind;  he  's  not 
a  bad  man  really.  Sometimes  he  '11  speak  quite  kind 


io  The  Silver  Box  ACT  i 

to  me,  but  I  've  stood  so  much  from  him,  I  don't  feel 
it  in  me  to  speak  kind  back,  but  just  keep  myself  to 
myself.  And  he  's  all  right  with  the  children  too, 
except  when  he  's  not  himself. 

WHEELER.  You  mean  when  he 's  drunk,  the 
beauty. 

MRS.    JONES.     Yes.     [Without    change    of    voice.) 
There  's  the  young  gentleman  asleep  on  the  sofa. 
[They  both  look  silently  at  Jack. 

MRS.  JONES.  [At  last,  in  her  soft  voice.]  He 
does  n't  look  quite  himself. 

WHEELER.  He  's  a  young  limb,  that 's  what  he  is. 
It 's  my  belief  he  was  tipsy  last  night,  like  your 
husband.  It 's  another  kind  of  bein'  out  of  work 
that  sets  him  to  drink.  I  '11  go  and  tell  Marlow. 
This  is  his  job. 

[She  goes. 

[Mrs.  Jones,  upon  her  knees,  begins  a  gentle 
sweeping.] 

JACK.     [Waking.]    Who  's  there?     What  is  it? 

MRS.  JONES.     It 's  me,  sir,  Mrs.  Jones. 

JACK.  [Sitting  up  and  looking  round.]  Where  is 
it — what — what  time  is  it? 

MRS.  JONES.     It 's  getting  on  for  nine  o'clock,  sir. 

JACK.  For  nine!  Why — what!  [Rising,  and 
loosening  his  tongue;  putting  hand  to  his  head,  and 
staring  hard  at  Mrs.  Jones.]  Look  here,  you,  Mrs. 
— Mrs.  Jones — don't  you  say  you  caught  me  asleep 
here. 

MRS.  JONES.     No,  sir,  of  course  I  won't  sir. 

JACK.  It 's  quite  an  accident;  I  don't  know  how  it 
happened.  I  must  have  forgotten  to  go  to  bed.  It 's 
a  queer  thing.  I  've  got  a  most  beastly  headache. 
Mind  you  don't  say  anything,  Mrs.  Jones. 


sc.  ii  The  Silver  Box  n 

[Goes  out  and  passes  MARLOW  in  the  doorway. 
MARLOW  is  young  and  quiet;  he  is  clean- 
shaven, and  his  hair  is  brushed  high  from 
his  forehead  in  a  coxcomb.  Incidentally 
a  butler,  he  is  first  a  man.  He  looks  at 
MRS.  JONES,  and  smiles  a  private  smile.] 

MARLOW.  Not  the  first  time,  and  won't  be  the 
last.  Looked  a  bit  dicky,  eh,  Mrs.  Jones? 

MRS.  JONES.  He  did  n't  look  quite  himself.  Of 
course  I  did  n't  take  notice. 

MARLOW.  You  're  used  to  them.  How  's  your  old 
man? 

MRS.  JONES.  [Softly  as  throughout.]  Well,  he  was 
very  bad  last  night ;  he  did  n't  seem  to  know  what  he 
was  about.  He  was  very  late,  and  he  was  most 
abusive.  But  now,  of  course,  he  's  asleep. 

MARLOW.     That 's  his  way  of  finding  a  job,  eh? 

MRS.  JONES.  As  a  rule,  Mr.  Marlow,  he  goes  out 
early  every  morning  looking  for  work,  and  sometimes 
he  comes  in  fit  to  drop — and  of  course  I  can't  say  he 
does  n't  try  to  get  it,  because  he  does.  Trade  's  very 
bad.  [She  stands  quite  still,  her  pan  and  brush  before 
her,  at  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  long  vistas  of  expe- 
rience, traversing  them  with  her  impersonal  eye.]  But 
he  's  not  a  good  husband  to  me — last  night  he  hit 
me,  and  he  was  so  dreadfully  abusive. 

MARLOW.  Bank'oliday,  eh!  He  's  too  fond  of  the 
"Goat  and  Bells,"  that's  what's  the  matter  with 
him.  I  see  him  at  the  corner  late  every  night.  He 
hangs  about. 

MRS.  JONES.  He  gets  to  feeling  very  low  walking 
about  all  day  after  work,  and  being  refused  so  often, 
and  then  when  he  gets  a  drop  in  him  it  goes  to  his 
head.  But  he  should  n't  treat  his  wife  as  he  treats 


1 2  The  Silver  Box  ACT  i 

me.  Sometimes  I  've  had  to  go  and  walk  about  at 
night,  when  he  \voulJ  n't  let  me  stay  in  the  room; 
but  he  's  sorry  for  it  afterwards.  And  he  hangs  about 
after  me,  he  waits  for  me  in  the  street;  and  I  don't 
think  he  ought  to,  because  I  've  always  been  a 
good  wife  to  him.  And  I  tell  him  Mrs.  Barthwick 
would  n't  like  him  coming  about  the  place.  But  that 
only  makes  him  angry,  and  he  says  dreadful  things 
about  the  gentry.  Of  course  it  was  through  me  that 
he  first  lost  his  place,  through  his  not  treating  me 
right;  and  that 's  made  him  bitter  against  the  gentry. 
He  had  a  very  good  place  as  groom  in  the  country ; 
but  it  made  such  a  stir,  because  of  course  he  did  n't 
treat  me  right. 

MARLOW.     Got  the  sack? 

MRS.  JONES.  Yes;  his  employer  said  he  couldn't 
keep  him,  because  there  was  a  great  deal  of  talk; 
and  he  said  it  was  such  a  bad  example.  But  it 's 
very  important  for  me  to  keep  my  work  here ;  I  have 
the  three  children,  and  I  don't  want  him  to  come 
about  after  me  in  the  streets,  and  make  a  disturbance 
as  he  sometimes  does. 

MARLOW.  [Holding  up  the  empty  decanter.}  Not  a 
drain!  Next  time  he  hits  you  get  a  witness  and  go 
down  to  the  court 

MRS.  JONES.  Yes,  I  think  I  've  made  up  my  mind. 
I  think  I  ought  to. 

MARLOW.     That 's  right.     Where  's  the  ciga ? 

[He  searches  for  the  silver  box;  he  looks  at  MRS. 
JONES,  who  is  sweeping  on  her  hands  and 
knees;  he  checks  himself  and  stands  reflecting. 
From  the  tray  he  picks  two  half-smoked 
cigarettes,  and  reads  the  name  on  them.] 
Nestor — where  the  deuce ? 


sc- «  The  Silver  Box  13 

[With  a  meditative  air  he  looks  again  at 
MRS.  JONES,  and,  taking  up  JACK'S 
overcoat,  he  searches  in  the  pockets- 
WHEELER,  with  a  tray  of  breakfast  things, 
comes  in.] 

MARLOW.     [Aside  to  WHEELER.]    Have  you  seen 
the  cigarette-box? 
WHEELER.     No. 

MARLOW.  Well,  it 's  gone.  I  put  it  on  the  tray 
last  night.  And  he  's  been  smoking.  [Showing  her 
the  ends  of  cigarettes.]  It 's  not  in  these  pockets.  He 
can't  have  taken  it  upstairs  this  morning!  Have  a 
good  look  in  his  room  when  he  comes  down.  Who  's 
been  in  here? 

WHEELER.     Only  me  and  Mrs.  Jones. 
MRS.  JONES.     I  've  finished  here;  shall  I  do   the 
drawing-room  now? 

WHEELER.     [Looking    at    her    doubtfully.]    Have 

you  seen Better  do  the  boudwower  first. 

[MRS.  JONES  goes  out  with  pan  and  brush. 
MARLOW  and  WHEELER  look  each  other  in 
the  face.] 
MARLOW.     It  '11  turn  up. 

WHEELER.     [Hesitating.]    You  don't  think  she 

[Nodding  at  the  door.] 

MARLOW.  [Stoutly.]  I  don't — I  never  believes 
anything  of  anybody. 

WHEELER.     But  the  master  '11  have  to  be  told. 
MARLOW.     You  wait  a  bit,  and  see  if  it  don't  turn 
up.     Suspicion  's  no  business  of  ours.     I  set  my  mind 
against  it. 

The  curtain  falls. 

The  curtain  rises  again  at  once. 


1 4  The  Silver  Box  ACT  i 

SCENE  III 

EARTH  WICK  and  MRS.  B  ART  H  WICK  are  seated  at  the 
breakfast  table.  He  is  a  man  between  fifty  and 
sixty;  quietly  important,  with  a  bald  forehead,  and 
pince-nez,  and  the  "Times"  in  his  hand.  She  is  a 
lady  of  nearly  fifty,  well  dressed,  with  greyish  hair, 
good  features,  and  a  decided  manner.  They  face 
each  other. 

BARTHWICK.  [From  behind  his  paper.]  The  La- 
bour man  has  got  in  at  the  by-election  for  Barnside, 
my  dear. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Another  Labour?  I  can't 
think  what  on  earth  the  country  is  about. 

BARTHWICK.  I  predicted  it.  It 's  not  a  matter  of 
vast  importance. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Not?  How  can  you  take  it  so 
calmly,  John?  To  me  it 's  simply  outrageous.  And 
there  you  sit,  you  Liberals,  and  pretend  to  encourage 
these  people! 

BARTHWICK.  [Frowning.]  The  representation  of 
all  parties  is  necessary  for  any  proper  reform,  for 
any  proper  social  policy. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  I  've  no  patience  with  your  talk 
of  reform — all  that  nonsense  about  social  policy.  We 
know  perfectly  well  what  it  is  they  want;  they  want 
things  for  themselves.  Those  Socialists  and  Labour 
men  are  an  absolutely  selfish  set  of  people.  They 
have  no  sense  of  patriotism,  like  the  upper  classes; 
they  simply  want  what  we  've  got. 

BARTHWICK.  Want  what  we've  got!  [He  stares 
into  space.]  My  dear,  what  are  you  talking  about? 
a  contortion.]  I  'm  no  alarmist. 


sc.  m  The  Silver  Box  15 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Cream?  Quite  uneducated  men ! 
Wait  until  they  begin  to  tax  our  investments.  I  'm 
convinced  that  when  they  once  get  a  chance  they 
will  tax  everything  —  they  've  no  feeling  for  the 
country.  You  Liberals  and  Conservatives,  you  're 
all  alike;  you  don't  see  an  inch  before  your  noses. 
You  've  no  imagination,  not  a  scrap  of  imagination 
between  you.  You  ought  to  join  hands  and  nip  it  in 
the  bud. 

BARTHWICK.  You  're  talking  nonsense!  How  is 
it  possible  for  Liberals  and  Conservatives  to  join 
hands,  as  you  call  it?  That  shows  how  absurd  it  is  for 

women Why,  the  very  essence  of  a  Liberal  is  to 

trust  in  the  people! 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Now,  John,  eat  your  breakfast. 
As  if  there  were  any  real  difference  between  you  and 
the  Conservatives.  All  the  upper  classes  have  the 
same  interests  to  protect,  and  the  same  principles. 
[Calmly.]  Oh!  you're  sitting  upon  a  volcano,  John. 

BARTHWICK.     What! 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  I  read  a  letter  in  the  paper  yes- 
terday. I  forget  the  man's  name,  but  it  made  the 
whole  thing  perfectly  clear.  You  don't  look  things 
in  the  face. 

BARTHWICK.  Indeed!  [Heavily.]  I  am  a  Lib- 
eral !  Drop  the  subject,  please  ! 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Toast?  I  quite  agree  with 
what  this  man  says:  Education  is  simply  ruining  the 
lower  classes.  It  unsettles  them,  and  that 's  the 
worst  thing  for  us  all.  I  see  an  enormous  difference 
in  the  manner  of  servants. 

BARTHWICK.  [With  suspicious  emphasis.]  I  wel- 
come any  change  that  will  lead  to  something  better. 
[He  opens  a  letter.]  H  'm !  This  is  that  affair  of 


1 6  The  Silver  Box  ACT  i 

Master  Jack's  again.  "High  Street,  Oxford.  Sir, 
We  have  received  Mr.  John  Barthwick,  Senior's,  draft 
for  forty  pounds  ! "  Oh!  the  letter  's  to  him!  "We 
now  enclose  the  cheque  you  cashed  with  us,  which,  as 
we  stated  in  our  previous  letter,  was  not  met  on  pre- 
sentation at  your  bank.  We  are,  Sir,  yours  obedi- 
ently, Moss  and  Sons,  Tailors."  H  'm!  [Staring  at 
the  cheque."]  A  pretty  business  altogether  !  The  boy 
might  have  been  prosecuted. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Come,  John,  you  know  Jack 
did  n't  mean  anything;  he  only  thought  he  was  over- 
drawing. I  still  think  his  bank  ought  to  have  cashed 
that  cheque.  They  must  know  your  position. 

BARTHWICK.  [Replacing  in  the  envelope  the  letter 
and  the  cheque.]  Much  good  that  would  have  done 
him  in  a  court  of  law.  [He  stops  as  JACK  comes  in, 
fastening  his  waistcoat  and  staunching  a  razor  cut  upon 
his  chin.] 

JACK.  [Sitting  down  between  them,  and  speaking 
with  an  artificial  joviality.]  Sorry  I  'm  late.  [He 
looks  lugubriously  at  the  dishes.]  Tea,  please,  mother. 
Any  letters  for  me?  [BARTHWICK  hands  the  letter  to 
him.]  But  look  here,  I  say,  this  has  been  opened!  I 
do  wish  you  would  n't 

BARTHWICK.  [Touching  the  envelope.]  I  suppose 
I  'm  entitled  to  this  name. 

JACK.  [Sulkily.]  Well,  I  can't  help  having  youi 
name,  father!  [He  reads  the  letter,  and  mutters.] 
Brutes! 

BARTHWICK.  [Eyeing  him.]  You  don't  deserve  to 
be  so  well  out  of  that. 

JACK.     Haven't  you  ragged  me  enough,  dad? 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Yes,  John,  let  Jack  have  his 
breakfast. 


sc.ra  The  Silver  Box  17 

BARTHWICK.  If  you  hadn't  had  me  to  come  to, 
where  would  you  have  been?  It 's  the  merest  acci- 
dent— suppose  you  had  been  the  son  of  a  poor  man  or 
a  clerk.  Obtaining  money  with  a  cheque  you  knew 
your  bank  could  not  meet.  It  might  have  ruined  you 
for  life.  I  can't  see  what 's  to  become  of  you  if  these 
are  your  principles.  I  never  did  anything  of  the 
sort  myself. 

JACK.  I  expect  you  always  had  lots  of  money.  If 
you  've  got  plenty  of  money,  of  course 

BARTHWICK.  On  the  contrary,  I  had  not  your 
advantages.  My  father  kept  me  very  short  of 
money. 

JACK.     How  much  had  you,  dad? 

BARTHWICK.  It 's  not  material.  The  question  is, 
do  you  feel  the  gravity  of  what  you  did? 

JACK.  I  don't  know  about  the  gravity.  Of  course, 
I  'm  very  sorry  if  you  think  it  was  wrong.  Have  n't 
I  said  so!  I  should  never  have  done  it  at  all  if  I 
had  n't  been  so  jolly  hard  up. 

BARTHWICK.  How  much  of  that  forty  pounds 
have  you  got  left,  Jack? 

JACK.     [Hesitating.]    I  don't  know — not  much. 

BARTHWICK.     How  much? 

JACK.     [Desperately.]    I  have  n't  got  any. 

BARTHWICK.     What? 

JACK.  I  know  I  've  got  the  most  beastly  headache. 
[He  leans  his  head  on  his  hand. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Headache?  My  dear  boy ! 
Can't  you  eat  any  breakfast? 

JACK.     [Drawing  in  his  breath.]     Too  jolly  bad  ! 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  I  'm  so  sorry.  Come  with  me. 
dear;  I  '11  give  you  something  that  will  take  it  away 
at  once. 


1 8  The  Silver  Box  ACT  i 

[They  leave  the  room;  and  BARTHWICK,  tearing 
up  the  letter,  goes  to  the  fireplace  and  puts 
the  pieces  in  the  fire.      While  he  is  doing 
this  MARLOW  comes  in,  and  looking  round 
him,  is  about  quietly  to  withdraw^ 
BARTHWICK.     What 's  that?     What  d  'you  want? 
MARLOW.     I  was  looking  for  Mr.  John,  sir. 
BARTHWICK.     What  d'  you  want  Mr.  John  for? 
MARLOW.     [With  hesitation.]    I  thought  I  should 
find  him  here,  sir. 

BARTHWICK.  [Suspiciously.]  Yes,  but  what  do 
you  want  him  for? 

MARLOW.  [Offhandedly.]  There  's  a  lady  called — • 
asked  to  speak  to  him  for  a  minute,  sir. 

BARTHWICK.  A  lady,  at  this  time  in  the  morning. 
What  sort  of  a  lady? 

MARLOW.  [Without  expression  in  his  voice.]  I  can't 
tell,  sir;  no  particular  sort.  She  might  be  after 
charity.  She  might  be  a  Sister  of  Mercy,  I  should 
think,  sir. 

BARTHWICK.     Is  she  dressed  like  one? 
MARLOW.     No,  sir,  she  's  in  plain  clothes,  sir. 
BARTHWICK.     Did  n't  she  say  what  she  wanted? 
MARLOW.     No  sir. 

BARTHWICK.     Where  did  you  leave  her? 
MARLOW.     In  the  hall,  sir. 

BARTHWICK.     In   the   hall?     How   do   you   know 
she  's  not  a  thief — not  got  designs  on  the  house? 
MARLOW.     No,  sir,  I  don't  fancy  so,  sir. 
BARTHWICK.     Well,  show  her  in  here;  I  '11  see  her 
myself. 

[MARLOW  goes  out  with  a  private  gesture  of  dis- 
may. He  soon  returns,  ushering  in  a  young 
pale  lady  with  dark  eyes  and  pretty  figure,  in 


sc.  m  The  Silver  Box  19 

a  modish,  black,  but  rather  shabby  dress,  a 
black  and  white  trimmed  hat  with  a  bunch  of 
Parma  violets  wrongly  placed,  and  fuzzy- 
spotted  veil.  At  the  sight  of  MR.  BARTH- 
WICK  she  exhibits  every  sign  of  nervousness. 
MARLOW  goes  out.] 

UNKNOWN  LADY.  Oh!  but — I  beg  pardon — • 
there  's  some  mistake — I •  [She  turns  to  fly.] 

BARTHWICK.    Whom  did  you  want  to  see,  madam? 

UNKNOWN.  [Stopping  and  looking  back]  It  was 
Mr.  John  Barthwick  I  wanted  to  see. 

BARTHWICK.  I  am  John  Barthwick,  madam. 
What  can  I  have  the  pleasure  of  doing  for  you? 

UNKNOWN.  Oh!  I — I  don't [She  drops  her 

eyes.  BARTHWICK  scrutinises  her,  and  purses  his 
lips] 

BARTHWICK.  It  was  my  son,  perhaps,  you  wished 
to  see? 

UNKNOWN.     [Quickly]  Yes,  of  course,  it 's  your  son. 

BARTHWICK.  May  I  ask  whom  I  have  the  pleasure 
of  speaking  to  ? 

UNKNOWN.  [Appeal  and  hardiness  upon  her  face] 
My  name  is — oh!  it  does  n't  matter — I  don't  want  to 
make  any  fuss.  I  just  want  to  see  your  son  for  a 
minute.  [Boldly]  In  fact,  I  must  see  him. 

BARTHWICK.  [Controlling  his  uneasiness]  My  son 
is  not  very  well.  If  necessary,  no  doubt  I  could  attend 
to  the  matter;  be  so  kind  as  to  let  me  know 

UNKNOWN.  Oh!  but  I  must  see  him — I  've  come 
on  purpose — [She  bursts  out  nervously]  I  don't  want 
to  make  any  fuss,  but  the  fact  is,  last — last  night  your 
son  took  away — he  took  away  my [She  stops] 

BARTHWICK.     [Severely]     Yes,  madam,  what? 

UNKNOWN.     He  took  away  my — my  reticule. 


20  The  Silver  Box  ACT 


BARTHWICK.     Your  reti ? 

UNKNOWN.  I  don't  care  about  the  reticule;  it's 
not  that  I  want — I  'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  make  any 
fuss — [her  face  is  quivering] — but — but — all  my  money 
was  in  it! 

BARTHWICK.     In  what — in  what? 

UNKNOWN.  In  my  purse,  in  the  reticule.  It  was  a 
crimson  silk  purse.  Really,  I  would  n't  have  come 
— I  don't  want  to  make  any  fuss.  But  I  must  get 
my  money  back — must  n't  I  ? 

BARTHWICK.     Do  you  tell  me  that  my  son ? 

UNKNOWN.  Oh!  well,  you  see,  he  wasn't  quite — • 
I  mean  he  was [She  smiles  mesmerically. 

BARTHWICK.     I  beg  your  pardon. 

UNKNOWN.  [Stamping  her  foot.]  Oh  !  don't  you 
see — tipsy!  We  had  a  quarrel. 

BARTHWICK.     [Scandalised.]    How?     Where? 

UNKNOWN.  [Defiantly.]  At  my  place.  We  'd 
had  supper  at  the and  your  son 

BARTHWICK.  [Pressing  the  bell.]  May  I  ask  how 
you  knew  this  house?  Did  he  give  you  his  name 
and  address? 

UNKNOWN.  [Glancing  sidelong.]  I  got  it  out  of  his 
overcoat. 

BARTHWICK.  [Sardonically.]  Oh!  you  got  it  out 
of  his  overcoat.  And  may  I  ask  if  my  son  will  know 
you  by  daylight? 

UNKNOWN.  Know  me?  I  should  jolly — I  mean, 
of  course  he  will  !  [MARLOW  comes  in. 

BARTHWICK.     Ask  Mr.  John  to  come  down. 

[MARLOW  goes  out,  and  BARTHWICK  walks  un- 
easily about.] 

And  how  long  have  you  enjoyed  his  acquaintance- 
ship? 


sc.  m  The  Silver  Box  21 

UNKNOWN.     Only  since — only  since  Good  Friday. 
BARTHWICK.     I  am  at  a  loss — I  repeat  I  am  at  a 

loss 

[He  glances  at  this  unknown  lady,  who  stands 
with  eyes  cast  down,  twisting  her  hands. 
And  suddenly  Jack  appears.  He  stops 
on  seeing  who  is  here,  and  the  unknown 
lady  hysterically  giggles.  There  is  a 
silence. ] 

BARTHWICK.  [Portentously.]  This  young — er — • 
lady  says  that  last  night — I  think  you  said  last  night 

madam — you  took  away 

UNKNOWN.  [Impulsively.]  My  reticule,  and  all  my 
money  was  in  a  crimson  silk  purse. 

JACK.  Reticule.  [Looking  round  for  any  chance  to 
get  away.]  I  don't  know  anything  about  it. 

BARTHWICK.  [Sharply]  Come,  do  you  deny  see- 
ing this  young  lady  last  night? 

JACK.  Deny?  No,  of  course.  [Whispering.]  Why 
did  you  give  me  away  like  this?  What  on  earth  did 
you  come  here  for? 

UNKNOWN.  [Tearfully]  I  'm  sure  I  did  n't  want 
to — it 's  not  likely,  is  it?  You  snatched  it  out  of  my 
hand — you  know  you  did — and  the  purse  had  all  my 
money  in  it.  I  did  n't  follow  you  last  night  because 
I  did  n't  want  to  make  a  fuss  and  it  was  so  late,  and 


you  were  so 

BARTHWICK.  Come,  sir,  don't  turn  your  back  on 
me — explain  ! 

JACK.  [Desperately.]  I  don't  remember  anything 
about  it.  [In  a  low  voice  to  his  friend.]  Why  on 
earth  could  n't  you  have  written? 

UNKNOWN.  [Sullenly.]  I  want  it  now;  I  must 
have  it — I  've  got  to  pay  my  rent  to-day.  [She  looks 


22  The  Silver  Box  ACT  i 

at  BARTHWICK.]     They  're  only  too  glad  to  jump  on 
people  who  are  not — not  well  off. 

JACK.  I  don't  remember  anything  about  it,  really. 
I  don't  remember  anything  about  last  night  at  all. 
[He  puts  his  hand  up  to  his  head.]  It 's  all — cloudy, 
and  I  've  got  such  a  beastly  headache. 

UNKNOWN.  But  you  took  it;  you  know  you  did. 
You  said  you  'd  score  me  off. 

JACK.  Well,  then,  it  must  be  here.  I  remember 
now — I  remember  something.  Why  did  I  take  the 
beastly  thing? 

BARTHWICK.    Yes,  why  did  you  take  the  beastly — 

[He  turns  abruptly  to  the  window. 

UNKNOWN.      [With    her     mesmeric    smile.]      You 

were  n't  quite were  you? 

JACK.     [Smiling  pallidly.]     I  'm  awfully  sorry.     If 

there  's  anything  I  can  do 

BARTHWICK.  Do?  You  can  restore  this  property, 
I  suppose. 

JACK.  I  '11  go  and  have  a  look,  but  I  really  don't 
think  I  've  got  it. 

[He  goes  out  hurriedly.  And  BARTHWICK, 
placing  a  chair,  motions  to  the  visitor  to 
sit;  then,  with  pursed  lips,  he  stands  and 
eyes  her  fixedly.  She  sits,  and  steals  a 
look  at  him;  then  turns  away,  and,  drawing 
up  her  veil,  stealthily  wipes  her  eyes.  And 
Jack  comes  back.] 

JACK.  [Ruefully  holding  out  the  empty  reticule.]  Is 
that  the  thing?  I  've  looked  all  over — I  can't  find 
the  purse  anywhere.  Are  you  sure  it  was  there? 

UNKNOWN.     [Tearfully.]     Sure?     Of    course    I  'm 
sure.     A  crimson  silk  purse.     It  was  all  the  money 
I  had. 


sc.  in  The  Silver  Box  23 

JACK.  I  really  am  awfully  sorry — my  head  's  so 
jolly  bad.  I  've  asked  the  butler,  but  he  has  n't  seen 
it. 

UNKNOWN.     I  must  have  my  money 

JACK.  Oh!  Of  course — that'll  be  all  right;  I'll 
see  that  that 's  all  right.  How  much? 

UNKNOWN.  [Sullenly.]  Seven  pounds — twelve — • 
it 's  all  I  've  got  in  the  world. 

JACK.  That '11  be  all  right;  I '11— send  you  a — 
cheque. 

UNKNOWN.  [Eagerly.]  No ;  now,  please.  Give  me 
what  was  in  my  purse;  I  've  got  to  pay  my  rent  this 
morning.  They  won't  give  me  another  day;  I  'm  a 
fortnight  behind  already. 

JACK.  [Blankly.]  I  'm  awfully  sorry;  I  really 
have  n't  a  penny  in  my  pocket. 

[He  glances  stealthily  at  BARTHWICK. 

UNKNOWN.  [Excitedly.]  Come  I  say  you  must — • 
it 's  my  money,  and  you  took  it.  I  'm  not  going 
away  without  it.  They  '11  turn  me  out  of  my 
place. 

JACK.  [Clasping  his  head.]  But  I  can't  give  you 
what  I  have  n't  got.  Don't  I  tell  you  I  have  n't  a 
beastly  cent 

UNKNOWN.  [Tearing  at  her  handkerchief.]  Oh!  do 
give  it  me!  [She  puts  her  hands  together  in  appeal; 
then,  with  sudden  fierceness.]  If  you  don't  I  '11  sum- 
mons you.  It 's  stealing,  that 's  what  it  is! 

BARTHWICK.  [Uneasily.]  One  moment,  please. 
As  a  matter  of — er — principle,  I  shall  settle  this  claim. 
[He  produces  money.]  Here  is  eight  pounds;  the 
extra  will  cover  the  value  of  the  purse  and  your  cab 
fares.  I  need  make  no  comment — no  thanks  are 
necessary. 


24  The  Silver  Box  ACT  i 

[Touching  the  bell,  he  holds  the  door  afar  in 
silence.  The  unknown  lady  stores  the 
money  in  her  reticule,  she  looks  from  JACK 
to  BARTHWICK,  and  her  face  is  quivering 
faintly  with  a  smile.  She  hides  it  with  her 
hand,  and  steals  aw. ay.  Behind  her  BARTH- 
WICK shuts  the  door.} 

BARTHWICK.  [With  solemnity.}  H'm!  This  is 
nice  thing  to  happen  ! 

JACK.  [Impersonally.}  What  awful  luck ! 
BARTHWICK.  So  this  is  the  way  that  forty  pounds 
has  gone!  One  thing  after  another!  Once  more  I 
should  like  to  know  where  you  'd  have  been  if  it 
had  n't  been  for  me !  You  don't  seem  to  have  any 
principles.  You — you  're  one  of  those  who  are  a 
nuisance  to  society;  you — you  're  dangerous!  What 
your  mother  would  say  I  don't  know.  Your  conduct, 
as  far  as  I  can  see,  is  absolutely  unjustifiable.  It 's — • 
it 's  criminal.  Why,  a  poor  man  who  behaved  as 
you  've  done  .  .  .  d'  you  think  he  'd  have  any  mercy 
shown  him?  What  you  want  is  a  good  lesson.  You 
and  your  sort  are — [he  speaks  with  feeling] — a  nuisance 
to  the  community.  Don't  ask  me  to  help  you  next 
time.  You  're  not  fit  to  be  helped. 

JACK.  [Turning  upon  his  sire,  with  unexpected 
fierceness.}  All  right,  I  won't  then,  and  see  how  you 
like  it.  You  would  n't  have  helped  me  this  time,  I 
know,  if  you  had  n't  been  scared  the  thing  would  get 
into  the  papers.  Where  are  the  cigarettes  ? 

BARTHWICK.  [Regarding  him  uneasily.}  Well — • 
I  '11  say  no  more  about  it.  [He  rings  the  bell.}  I  '11 
pass  it  over  for  this  once,  but —  [MARLOW  comes  in} 
You  can  clear  away. 

[He  hides  his  face  behind  the  "  Times." 


sc.  m  The  Silver  Box  25 

JACK.  [Brightening.]  I  say,  Marlow,  where  are  the 
cigarettes? 

MARLOW.  I  put  the  box  out  with  the  whisky  last 
night,  sir,  but  this  morning  I  can't  find  it  anywhere. 

JACK.     Did  you  look  in  my  room? 

MARLOW.  Yes,  sir;  I  've  looked  all  over  the  house. 
I  found  two  Nestor  ends  in  the  tray  this  morning, 
so  you  must  have  been  smokin'  last  night,  sir. 
[Hesitating.]  I  'm  really  afraid  some  one  's  purloined 
the  box. 

JACK.     [Uneasily]     Stolen  it! 

BARTHWICK.  What's  that?  The  cigarette-box! 
Is  anything  else  missing? 

MARLOW.     No,  sir;  I  've  been  through  the  plate. 

BARTHWICK.  Was  the  house  all  right  this  morning? 
None  of  the  windows  open? 

MARLOW.  No,  sir.  [Quietly  to  JACK.]  You  left 
your  latch-key  in  the  door  last  night ,  sir. 

[He  hands  it  back,  unseen  by  BARTHWICK. 

JACK.     Tst! 

BARTHWICK.  Who  's  been  in  the  room  this  morn- 
ing? 

MARLOW.  Me  and  Wheeler,  and  Mrs.  Jones  is  all, 
sir,  as  far  as  I  know. 

BARTHWICK.  Have  you  asked  Mrs.  Barthwick? 
[To  JACK.]  Go  and  ask  your  mother  if  she  's  had  it ; 
ask  her  to  look  and  see  if  she  's  missed  anything 
else.  QACK  goes  upon  this  mission. 

Nothing  is  more  disquieting  than  losing  things  like  this. 

MARLOW.     No,  sir. 

BARTHWICK.     Have  you  any  suspicions? 

MARLOW,  No,  sir. 

BARTHWICK.  This  Mrs.  Jones — how  long  has  she 
been  working  here? 


26  The  Silver  Box  ACT  i 

MARLOW.     Only  this  last  month,  sir. 

BARTHWICK.     What  sort  of  person? 

MARLOW.  I  don't  know  much  about  her,  sir; 
seems  a  very  quiet,  respectable  woman. 

BARTHWICK.     Who  did  the  room  this  morning? 

MARLOW.     Wheeler  and  Mrs.  Jones,  sir. 

BARTHWICK.  [With  his  forefinger  upraised.]  Now, 
was  this  Mrs.  Jones  in  the  room  alone  at  any  time? 

MARLOW.     [Expressionless.]     Yes,  sir. 

BARTHWICK.     How  do  you  know  that? 

MARLOW.     [Reluctantly.]    1  found  her  here,  sir. 

BARTHWICK.  And  has  Wheeler  been  in  the  room 
alone? 

MARLOW.  No,  sir,  she  's  not,  sir.  I  should  say,  sir, 
that  Mrs.  Jones  seems  a  very  honest 

BARTHWICK.  [Holding  up  his  hand.]  I  want  to 
know  this :  Has  this  Mrs.  Jones  been  here  the  whole 
morning? 

MARLOW.  Yes,  sir — no,  sir — she  stepped  over  to 
the  greengrocer's  for  cook. 

BARTHWICK.     H'm!    Is  she  in  the  house  now? 

MARLOW.     Yes,  sir. 

BARTHWICK.  Very  good.  I  shall  make  a  point  of 
clearing  this  up.  On  principle  I  shall  make  a  point  of 
fixing  the  responsibility;  it  goes  to  the  foundations 
of  security.  In  all  your  interests 

MARLOW.     Yes,  sir. 

BARTHWICK.  What  sort  of  circumstances  is  this 
Mrs.  Jones  in?  Is  her  husband  in  work? 

MARLOW.     I  believe  not,  sir. 

BARTHWICK.  Very  well.  Say  nothing  about  it  to 
any  one.  Tell  Wheeler  not  to  speak  of  it,  and  ask 
Mrs.  Jones  to  step  up  here. 

MARLOW.     Very  good,  sir. 


«i 


The  Silver  Box  27 


[MARLOW  goes  out,  his  face  concerned;  and 
BARTHWICK  stays,  his  face  judicial  and 
a  little  pleased,  as  befits  a  man  conducting 
an  inquiry.  MRS.  BARTHWICK  and  her  son 
come  in.] 

BARTHWICK.  Well,  my  dear,  you  've  not  seen  it,  1 
suppose? 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  No.  But  what  an  extraordi- 
nary thing,  John!  Marlow,  of  course,  is  out  of  the 
question.  I  'm  certain  none  of  the  maids  -  as  for 
cook! 

BARTHWICK.     Oh,  cook! 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Of  course!  It's  perfectly  de- 
testable to  me  to  suspect  anybody. 

BARTHWICK.  It  is  not  a  question  of  one  's  feelings. 
It  's  a  question  of  justice.  On  principle  -  • 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  I  should  n't  be  a  bit  surprised  if 
the  charwoman  knew  something  about  it.  It  was 
Laura  who  recommended  her. 

BARTHWICK.  [Judicially.]  I  am  going  to  have 
Mrs.  Jones  up.  Leave  it  to  me;  and  —  er  —  remember 
that  nobody  is  guilty  until  they  're  proved  so.  I  shall 
be  careful.  I  have  no  intention  of  frightening  her;  I 
shall  give  her  every  chance.  I  hear  she  's  in  poor  cir- 
cumstances. If  we  are  not  able  to  do  much  for  them 
we  are  bound  to  have  the  greatest  sympathy  with  the 
poor.  [MRS.  JONES  comes  in. 

[Pleasantly.]  Oh!  good  morning,  Mrs.  Jones. 

MRS.  JONES.  [Soft,  and  even,  unemphatic.]  Good 
morning,  sir!  Good  morning,  ma'am! 

BARTHWICK.  About  your  husband  —  he  's  not  in 
work,  I  hear? 

MRS.  JONES.  No,  sir;  of  course  he  's  not  in  work 
just  now. 


28  The  Silver  Box  ACTJ 

BARTHWICK.     Then  I  suppose  he  's  earning  nothing. 

MRS.  JONES.  No,  sir,  he  's  not  earning  anything 
just  now,  sir. 

BARTHWICK.     And  how  many  children  have  you? 

MRS.  JONES.  Three  children;  but  of  course  they 
don't  eat  very  much  sir.  [A  little  silence. 

BARTHWICK.     And  how  old  is  the  eldest? 

MRS.  JONES.     Nine  years  old,  sir. 

BARTHWICK.     Do  they  go  to  school? 

MRS.  JONES.  Yes,  sir,  they  all  three  go  to  school 
every  day. 

BARTHWICK.  [Severely.]  And  what  about  their 
food  when  you  're  out  at  work  ? 

MRS.  JONES.  Well,  sir,  I  have  to  give  them  their 
dinner  to  take  with  them.  Of  course  I  'm  not 
always  able  to  give  them  anything;  sometimes  I 
have  to  send  them  without;  but  my  husband  is 
very  good  about  the  children  when  he  's  in  work. 
But  when  he  's  not  in  work  of  course  he  's  a  very 
difficult  man. 

BARTHWICK.     He  drinks,  I  suppose? 

MRS.  JONES.  Yes,  sir.  Of  course  I  can't  say  he 
does  n't  drink,  because  he  does. 

BARTHWICK.  And  I  suppose  he  takes  all  your 
money? 

MRS.  JONES.  No,  sir,  he's  very  good  about  my 
money,  except  when  he  's  not  himself,  and  then,  of 
course,  he  treats  me  very  badly. 

BARTHWICK.     Now  what  is  he — your  husband? 

MRS.  JONES.  By  profession,  sir,  of  course  he  's  a 
groom. 

BARTHWICK.  A  groom!  How  came  he  to  lose  his 
place? 

MRS.  JONES.     He  lost  his  place  a  long  time  ago,  sir, 


m 


The  Silver  Box  29 


and  he  's  never  had  a  very  long  job  since  ;  and  now,  of 
course,  the  motor-cars  are  against  him. 

B  ART  H  WICK.  When  were  you  married  to  him, 
Mrs.  Jones? 

MRS.  JONES.     Eight  years  ago,  sir  —  that  was  in  — 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  [Sharply.]  Eight?  You  said 
the  eldest  child  was  nine. 

MRS.  JONES.  Yes,  ma'am;  of  course  that  was  why 
he  lost  his  place.  He  did  n't  treat  me  rightly,  and  of 
course  his  employer  said  he  could  n't  keep  him  be- 
cause of  the  example. 

BARTHWICK.     You  mean  he  —  ahem  - 

MRS.  JONES.  Yes,  sir;  and  of  course  after  he  lost 
his  place  he  married  me. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  You  actually  mean  to  say  you 
—  you  were  - 


BARTHWICK.     My  dear 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  [Indignantly.]  How  disgrace- 
ful! 

BARTHWICK.  [Hurriedly.]  And  where  are  you 
living  now,  Mrs.  Jones? 

MRS.  JONES.  We  've  not  got  a  home,  sir.  Of 
course  we  've  been  obliged  to  put  away  most  of  our 
things. 

BARTHWICK.  Put  your  things  away!  You  mean 
GO — to — er — to  pawn  them? 

MRS.  JONES.  Yes,  sir,  to  put  them  away.  We  're 
living  in  Merthyr  Street — that  is  close  by  here,  sir — • 
at  No.  34.  We  just  have  the  one  room. 

BARTHWICK.     And  what  do  you  pay  a  week? 

MRS.  JONES.  We  pay  six  shillings  a  week,  sir,  for 
a  furnished  room. 

BARTHWICK.  And  I  suppose  you  're  behind  in  the 
rent? 


30  The  Silver  Box  ACT  * 

MRS.  JONES.  Yes,  sir,  we  're  a  little  behind  in  the 
rent. 

BARTHWICK.     But  you  're  in  good  work,  are  n't  you? 

MRS.  JONES.  Well,  sir,  I  have  a  day  in  Stamford 
Place  Thursdays.  And  Mondays  and  Wednesdays 
and  Fridays  I  come  here.  But  to-day,  of  course,  is  a 
half-day,  because  of  yesterday's  Bank  Holiday. 

BARTHWICK.  I  see;  four  days  a  week,  and  you  get 
half  a  crown  a  day,  is  that  it? 

MRS.  JONES.  Yes,  sir,  and  my  dinner;  but  some- 
times it 's  only  half  a  day,  and  that 's  eighteenpence. 

BARTHWICK.  And  when  your  husband  earns  any- 
thing he  spends  it  in  drink,  I  suppose? 

MRS.  JONES.  Sometimes  he  does,  sir,  and  some- 
times he  gives  it  to  me  for  the  children.  Of  course  he 
would  work  if  he  could  get  it,  sir,  but  it  seems  there  are 
a  great  many  people  out  of  work. 

BARTHWICK.  Ah!  Yes.  We — er — won't  go  into 
that.  [Sympathetically.]  And  how  about  your  work 
here?  Do  you  find  it  hard? 

MRS.  JONES.  Oh!  no,  sir,  not  very  hard,  sir;  ex- 
cept of  course,  when  I  don't  get  my  sleep  at  night. 

BARTHWICK.  Ah!  And  you  help  do  all  the 
rooms?  And  sometimes,  I  suppose,  you  go  out  for 
cook? 

MRS.  JONES.     Yes,  sir. 

BARTHWICK.     And  you  've  been  out  this  morning? 

MRS.  JONES.  Yes,  sir,  of  course  I  had  to  go  to  the 
greengrocer's. 

BARTHWICK.  Exactly.  So  your  husband  earns 
nothing?  And  he  's  a  bad  character. 

MRS.  JONES.  No,  sir,  I  don't  say  that,  sir.  I  think 
there  's  a  great  deal  of  good  in  him;  though  he  does 
treat  me  very  bad  sometimes.  And  of  course  I  don't 


sc.  in  The  Silver  Box  31 

like  to  leave  him,  but  I  think  I  ought  to,  because 
really  I  hardly  know  how  to  stay  with  him.  He 
often  raises  his  hand  to  me.  Not  long  ago  he 
gave  me  a  blow  here  [touches  her  breast]  and  I  can 
feel  it  now.  So  I  think  I  ought  to  leave  him,  don't 
you,  sir? 

BARTHWICK.  Ah!  I  can't  help  you  there.  It's 
a  very  serious  thing  to  leave  your  husband.  Very 
serious  thing. 

MRS.  JONES.  Yes,  sir,  of  course  I  'm  afraid  of  what 
he  might  do  to  me  if  I  were  to  leave  him;  he  can  be 
so  very  violent. 

BARTHWICK.  H'm!  Well,  that  I  can't  pretend  to 
say  anything  about.  It 's  the  bad  principle  I  'm 
speaking  of • 

MRS.  JONES.  Yes,  sir;  I  know  nobody  can  help  me. 
I  know  I  must  decide  for  myself,  and  of  course  I  know 
that  he  has  a  very  hard  life.  And  he  's  fond  of  the 
children,  and  its  very  hard  for  him  to  see  them  going 
without  food. 

BARTHWICK.  [Hastily.]  Well — er — thank  you,  I 
just  wanted  to  hear  about  you.  I  don't  think  I  need 
detain  you  any  longer,  Mrs. — Jones. 

MRS.  JONES.     No,  sir,  thank  you,  sir. 

BARTHWICK.     Good  morning,  then. 

MRS.  JONES.  Good  morning,  sir;  good  morning, 
ma'am. 

BARTHWICK.  [Exchanging  glances  with  his  wife.] 
By  the  way,  Mrs.  Jones — I  think  it  is  only  fair  to  tell 
you,  a  silver  cigarette-box — er — is  missing. 

MRS.  JONES.  [Looking  from  one  face  to  the  other.] 
I  am  very  sorry,  sir. 

BARTHWICK.     Yes;  you  have  not  seen  it,  I  suppose? 

MRS.  JONES.     [Realising  that  suspicion  is  upon  her\ 


32  The  Silver  Box  ACT  i 

with  an  uneasy  movement.]    Where  was  it,  sir;  if  you 
please,  sir? 

BARTHWICK.  [Evasively.]  Where  did  Marlow  say? 
Er — in  this  room,  yes,  in  this  room. 

MRS.  JONES.  No,  sir,  I  have  n't  seen  it — of  course 
if  I  'd  seen  it  I  should  have  noticed  it. 

BARTHWICK.  [Giving  her  a  rapid  glance.]  You — 
you  are  sure  of  that? 

MRS.  JONES.  [Impassively.]  Yes,  sir.  [With  a 
slow  nodding  of  her  head.]  I  have  not  seen  it,  and  of 
course  I  don't  know  where  it  is. 

[She  turns  and  goes  quietly  out. 

BARTHWICK.     H'm! 

[The  three  BARTHWICKS  avoid  each  other's  glances.] 

The  curtain  falls. 


ACT  II 

SCENE   I 

The  JONES'S  lodgings,  Merthyr  Street,  at  half-past  two 
o'clock. 

The  bare  room,  with  tattered  oilcloth  and  damp,  dis- 
tempered walls,  has  an  air  of  tidy  wretchedness. 
On  the  bed  lies  JONES,  half-dressed;  his  coat  is 
thrown  across  his  feet,  and  muddy  boots  are  lying 
on  the  floor  close  by.  He  is  asleep.  The  door  is 
opened  and  MRS.  JONES  comes  in,  dressed  in  a 
pinched  black  jacket  and  old  black  sailor  hat;  she 
carries  a  parcel  wrapped  up  in  the  "Times."  She 
puts  her  parcel  down,  unwraps  an  apron,  half  a  loaf, 
two  onions,  three  potatoes,  and  a  tiny  piece  of  bacon. 
Taking  a  teapot  from  the  cupboard,  she  rinses  it, 
shakes  into  it  some  powdered  tea  out  of  a  screw  of 
paper,  puts  it  on  the  hearth,  and  sitting  in  a  wooden 
chair  quietly  begins  to  cry. 

JONES.   [Stirring  and  yawning.]  That  you?   What's 
the  time? 

MRS.  JONES.     [Drying  her  eyes,  and  in  her  usual 
voice.]     Half-past  two. 

JONES.     What  you  back  so  soon  for? 

MRS.    JONES.     I    only  had    the    half    day  to-day, 
Jem. 

JONES.     [On  his  back,  and  in  a  drowsy  voice.]     Got 
anything  for  dinner? 

3  33 


34  The  Silver  Box  ACT  n 

MRS.  JONES.  Mrs.  Barthwick's  cook  gave  me  a 
little  bit  of  bacon.  I  'm  going  to  make  a  stew.  [She 
prepares  for  cooking.]  There  "s  fourteen  shillings 
owing  for  rent,  James,  and  of  course  I  've  only  got  two 
and  fourpence.  They  '11  be  coming  for  it  to-day. 

JONES.  [Turning  towards  her  on  his  elbow.]  Let 
'em  come  and  find  my  surprise  packet.  I  've  had 
enough  o'  this  tryin'  for  work.  Why  should  I  go 
round  and  round  after  a  job  like  a  bloomin'  squirrel  in 
a  cage.  "Give  us  a  job,  sir" — "Take  a  man  on" — 
"Got  a  wife  and  three  children."  Sick  of  it  I  am! 
I  'd  sooner  lie  here  and  rot.  "Jones,  you  come  and 
join  the  demonstration ;  come  and  'old  a  flag,  and  listen 
to  the  ruddy  orators,  and  go  'ome  as  empty  as  you 
came."  There  's  some  that  seems  to  like  that — the 
sheep!  When  I  go  seekin'  for  a  job  now,  and  see 
the  brutes  lookin'  me  up  an'  down,  it 's  like  a  thou- 
sand serpents  in  me.  I  'm  not  arskin'  for  any  treat. 
A  man  wants  to  sweat  hisself  silly  and  not  allowed — 
that 's  a  rum  start,  ain't  it?  A  man  wants  to  sweat 
his  soul  out  to  keep  the  breath  in  him  and  ain't 
allowed — that 's  justice — that 's  freedom  and  all  the 
rest  of  it !  [He  turns  his  face  towards  the  wall-]  You  're 
so  milky  mild;  you  don't  know  what  goes  on  inside 
o'  me.  I  'm  done  with  the  silly  game.  If  they  want 
me,  let  'em  come  for  me! 

[MRS.  JONES  stops  cooking  and  stands  un- 

moving  at  the  table.] 

I  've  tried  and  done  with  it,  I  tell  you.  I  've  never 
been  afraid  of  what 's  before  me.  You  mark  my 
words — if  you  think  they  've  broke  my  spirit,  you  're 
mistook.  I  '11  lie  and  rot  sooner  than  arsk  'em  again. 
What  makes  you  stand  like  that — you  long-sufferin', 
Gawd-forsaken  image — that 's  why  I  can't  keep  my 


sc.  i  The  Silver  Box  35 

hands  off  you.  So  now  you  know.  Work !  You  can 
work,  but  you  have  n't  the  spirit  of  a  louse  ! 

MRS.  JONES.  [Quietly.]  You  talk  more  wild  some- 
times when  you  're  yourself,  James,  than  when  you  're 
not.  If  you  don't  get  work,  how  are  we  to  go  on? 
They  won't  let  us  stay  here;  they  're  looking  to  their 
money  to-day,  I  know. 

JONES.  I  see  this  Barthwick  o'  yours  every  day 
goin'  down  to  Pawlyment  snug  and  comfortable  to 
talk  his  silly  soul  out;  an'  I  see  that  young  calf,  his 
son,  swellin'  it  about,  and  goin'  on  the  razzle-dazzle. 
Wot  'ave  they  done  that  makes  'em  any  better  than 
wot  I  am?  They  never  did  a  day's  work  in  their 
lives.  I  see  'em  day  after  day 

MRS.  JONES.  And  I  wish  you  would  n't  come  after 
me  like  that,  and  hang  about  the  house.  You  don't 
seem  able  to  keep  away  at  all,  and  whatever  you 
do  it  for  I  can't  think,  because  of  course  they  notice 
it. 

JONES.  I  suppose  I  may  go  where  I  like.  Where 
may  I  go?  The  other  day  I  went  to  a  place  in  the 
Edgware  Road.  "Gov'nor,"  I  says  to  the  boss, 
"take  me  on,"  I  says.  "I  'ave n't  done  a  stroke  o' 
work  not  these  two  months;  it  takes  the  heart  out 
of  a  man,"  I  says;  "I  'm  one  to  work;  I  'm  not  afraid 
of  anything  you  can  give  me!"  "My  good  man," 
'e  says,  "I  've  had  thirty  of  you  here  this  morning. 
I  took  the  first  two,"  he  says,  "and  that 's  all  I  want." 
"Thank  you,  then  rot  the  world!"  I  says.  "Blas- 
phemin',"  he  says,  "is  not  the  way  to  get  a  job. 
Out  you  go,  my  lad!"  [He  laughs  sardonically.] 
Don't  you  raise  your  voice  because  you  're  starvin' ; 
don't  yer  even  think  of  it ;  take  it  lyin'  down !  Take  it 
like  a  sensible  man,  carn't  you?  And  a  little  way 


36  The  Silver  Box  ACT  n 

down  the  street  a  lady  says  to  me:  [Pinching  his 
voice]  "D'  you  want  to  earn  a  few  pence,  my  man? " 
and  gives  me  her  dog  to  'old  outside  a  shop — fat  as  a 
butler  'e  was — tons  o'  meat  had  gone  to  the  makin' 
of  him.  It  did  'er  good,  it  did,  made  'er  feel  'erself 
that  charitable,  but  I  see  'er  lookin'  at  the  copper 
standin'  alongside  o'  me,  for  fear  I  should  make  off 
with  'er  bloomin'  fat  dog.  [He  sits  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed  and  puts  a  boot  on.  Then  looking  up."]  What 's  in 
that  head  o'  yours?  [Almost  pathetically.]  Carn't 
you  speak  for  once? 

[There  is  a  knock,  and  MRS.  SEDDON,  the  land- 
lady, appears,  an  anxious,  harassed,  shabby 
woman  in  working  clothes.] 

MRS.  SEDDON.  I  thought  I  'card  you  come  in,  Mrs. 
Jones.  I  've  spoke  to  my  'usband,  but  he  says  he 
really  can't  afford  to  wait  another  day. 

JONES.  [With  scowling  jocularity]  Never  you 
mind  what  your  'usband  says,  you  go  your  own  way 
like  a  proper  independent  woman.  Here,  Jenny, 
chuck  her  that. 

[Producing  a  sovereign  from  his  trousers 
pocket,  he  throws  it  to  his  wife,  who  catches 
it  in  her  apron  with  a  gasp.  JONES  re- 
sumes the  lacing  of  his  boots.] 

MRS.  JONES.  [Rubbing  the  sovereign  stealthily.]  I  'm 
very  sorry  we  're  so  late  with  it,  and  of  course  it 's 
fourteen  shillings,  so  if  you  've  got  six  that  will  be 
right. 

[MRS.  SEDDON  takes  the  sovereign  and  fumbles 

for  the  change.] 

JONES.  [With  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  boots.]  Bit  of  a 
surprise  for  yer,  ain't  it? 

MRS.  SEDDON.     Thank  you,  and  I  'm  sure  I  'm  very 


sc.  i  The  Silver  Box  37 

much  obliged.     [She  does  indeed  appear  surprised.] 
I  '11  bring  you  the  change. 

JONES.     [Mockingly.]     Don't  mention  it. 

MRS.  SEDDON.  Thank  you,  and  I  'm  sure  I  'm  very 
much  obliged.  [She  slides  away. 

[MRS.  JONES  gazes  at  JONES  who  is  still  lacing 
up  his  boots.] 

JONES.  I  've  had  a  bit  of  luck.  [Pulling  out  the 
crimson  purse  and  some  loose  coins.]  Picked  up  a  purse 
— seven  pound  and  more. 

MRS.  JONES.     Oh,  James! 

JONES.  Oh,  James!  What  about  Oh,  James!  I 
picked  it  up  I  tell  you.  This  is  lost  property,  this  is ! 

MRS.  JONES.  But  is  n't  there  a  name  in  it,  or  some- 
thing? 

JONES.  Name?  No,  there  ain't  no  name.  This 
don't  belong  to  such  as  'ave  visitin'  cards.  This 
belongs  to  a  perfec'  lidy.  Tike  an'  smell  it.  [He 
pitches  her  the  purse,  which  she  puts  gently  to  her  nose] 
Now,  you  tell  me  what  I  ought  to  have  done.  You 
tell  me  that.  You  can  always  tell  me  what  I  ought 
to  ha'  done,  can't  yer? 

MRS.  JONES.  [Laying  down  the  purse.]  I  can't  say 
what  you  ought  to  have  done,  James.  Of  course  the 
money  was  n't  yours;  you  've  taken  somebody  else's 
money. 

JONES.  Finding 's  keeping.  I  '11  take  it  as  wages 
for  the  time  I  've  gone  about  the  streets  asking  for 
what 's  my  rights.  I  '11  take  it  for  what 's  overdue, 
d'  ye  hear?  [With  strange  triumph.]  I  've  got  money 
in  my  pocket,  my  girl. 

[MRS.  JONES  goes  on  again  with  the  prepara- 
tion of  the  meal,  JONES  looking  at  her  fur> 
lively.] 


38  The  Silver  Box  ACT  « 

Money  in  my  pocket!  And  I  'm  not  goin'  to  waste  it. 
With  this  'ere  money  I  'm  goin'  to  Canada.  I  '11  let 
you  have  a  pound.  [A  silence.]  You  've  often 
talked  of  leavin'  me.  You  've  often  told  me  I  treat 
you  badly — well  I  'ope  you  '11  be  glad  when  I  'm  gone. 

MRS.  JONES.  [Impassively.]  You  have  treated  me 
very  badly,  James,  and  of  course  I  can't  prevent  your 
going;  but  I  can't  tell  whether  I  shall  be  glad  when 
you  're  gone. 

JONES.  It  '11  change  my  luck.  I  've  'ad  nothing 
but  bad  luck  since  I  first  took  up  with  you.  [More 
softly.]  And  you  've  'ad  no  bloomin'  picnic. 

MRS.  JONES.  Of  course  it  would  have  been  better 
for  us  if  we  had  never  met.  We  were  n't  meant  for 
each  other.  But  you  're  set  against  me,  that 's  what 
you  are,  and  you  have  been  for  a  long  time.  And 
you  treat  me  so  badly,  James,  going  after  that  Rosie 
and  all.  You  don't  ever  seem  to  think  of  the  children 
that  I  've  had  to  bring  into  the  world,  and  of  all  the 
trouble  I  've  had  to  keep  them,  and  what  '11  become  of 
them  when  you  're  gone. 

JONES.  [Crossing  the  room  gloomily.]  If  you  think 
I  want  to  leave  the  little  beggars  you  're  bloomin'  well 
mistaken. 

MRS.  JONES.    Of  course  I  know  you  're  fond  of  them. 

JONES.  [Fingering  the  purse,  half  angrily.]  Well, 
then,  you  stow  it,  old  girl.  The  kids  '11  get  along 
better  with  you  than  when  I  'm  here.  If  I  'd  ha' 
known  as  much  as  I  do  now,  I  'd  never  ha'  had  one  o' 
them.  What 's  the  use  o'  bringin'  'em  into  a  state 
o'  things  like  this?  It 's  a  crime,  that 's  what  it  is; 
but  you  find  it  out  too  late;  that 's  what 's  the  matter 
with  this  'ere  world. 

[He  puts  the  purse  back  in  his  pocket. 


sc.  i  The  Silver  Box  39 

MRS.  JONES.  Of  course  it  would  have  been  better 
for  them,  poor  little  things;  but  they're  your  own 
children,  and  I  wonder  at  you  talkin'  like  that.  I 
should  miss  them  dreadfully  if  I  was  to  lose  them. 

JONES.     [Sullenly]    An'  you  ain't  the  only  one. 

If  I  make  money  out  there [Looking  up,  he  sees 

her  shaking  out  his  coat — in  a  changed  voice.]    Leave 
that  coat  alone ! 

[The  silver  box  drops  from  the  pocket,  scatter- 
ing the  cigarettes  upon  the  bed.  Taking  up 
the  box  she  stares  at  it;  he  rushes  at  her  and 
snatches  the  box  away.] 

MRS.  JONES.  [Cowering  back  against  the  bed.]  Oh, 
Jem!  oh,  Jem! 

JONES.  [Dropping  the  box  on  to  the  table]  You  mind 
what  you  're  sayin' !  When  I  go  out  I  '11  take  and 
chuck  it  in  the  water  along  with  that  there  purse. 
I  'ad  it  when  I  was  in  liquor,  and  for  what  you  do 
when  you  're  in  liquor  you  're  not  responsible — and 
that 's  Gawd's  truth  as  you  ought  to  know.  I  don't 
want  the  thing — I  won't  have  it.  I  took  it  out  o' 
spite.  I  'm  no  thief,  I  tell  you;  and  don't  you  call 
me  one,  or  it  '11  be  the  worse  for  you. 

MRS.  JONES.  [Twisting  her  apron  strings.]  It 's 
Mr.  Earth  wick's  !  You  've  taken  away  my  reputa- 
tion. Oh,  Jem,  whatever  made  you? 

JONES.     What  d'  you  mean? 

MRS.  JONES.  It 's  been  missed ;  they  think  it's  me. 
Oh!  whatever  made  you  do  it,  Jem? 

JONES.  I  tell  you  I  was  in  liquor.  I  don't  want  it; 
what 's  the  good  of  it  to  me?  If  I  were  to  pawn  it 
they  'd  only  nab  me.  I  'm  no  thief.  I  'm  no  worse 
than  wot  that  young  Barthwick  is;  he  brought 
'ome  that  purse  that  I  picked  up — a  lady's  purse — • 


40  The  Silver  Box  ACT  n 

'ad  it  off  'er  in  a  row,  kept  sayin'  'e  'd  scored  'ei- 
off.  Well,  I  scored  'im  off.  Tight  as  an  owl  'e 
was!  And  d'  you  think  anything  '11  happen  to 
him? 

MRS.  JONES.  [As  though  speaking  to  herself.]  Oh, 
Jem !  it 's  the  bread  out  of  our  mouths ! 

JONES.  Is  it  then?  I  '11  make  it  hot  for  'em  yet. 
What  about  that  purse?  What  about  young  Barth- 
wick? 

[MRS.  JONES  comes  forward  to  the  table  and 

tries  to  take  the  box;  JONES  prevents  her.] 
What  do  you  want  with  that?     You  drop  it,  I  say! 

MRS.  JONES.  I  '11  take  it  back  and  tell  them  all 
about  it.  [She  attempts  to  wrest  the  box  from  him. 

JONES.     Ah,  would  yer? 

[He  drops  the  box,  and  rushes  on  her  with  a 
snarl.  She  slips  back  past  the  bed.  He 
follows;  a  chair  is  overturned.  The  door 
is  opened;  SNOW  comes  in,  a  detective  in 
plain  clothes  and  bowler  hat,  with  clipped 
moustaches.  JONES  drops  his  arms,  MRS. 
JONES  stands  by  the  window  gasping;  SNOW, 
advancing  swiftly  to  the  table,  puts  his  hand 
on  the  silver  box.§ 

SNOW.  Doin'  a  bit  o'  skylarkin'?  Fancy  this  is 
what  I  'm  after.  J.  B.,  the  very  same.  [He  gets  back 
to  the  door,  scrutinising  the  crest  and  cypher  on  the  box. 
To  MRS.  JONES.]  I  'm  a  police  officer.  Are  you  Mrs. 
Jones? 

MRS.  JONES.     Yes,  sir. 

SNOW.  My  instructions  are  to  take  you  on  a  charge 
of  stealing  this  box  from  J.  Barthwick,  Esquire,  M.P., 
of  6,  Rockingham  Gate.  Anything  you  say  may  be 
used  against  you.  Well,  Missis? 


sc.  i  The  Silver  Box  41 

MRS.  JONES.  [In  her  quiet  voice,  still  out  of  breath, 
her  hand  upon  her  breast.]  Of  course  I  did  not  take  it, 
sir.  I  never  have  taken  anything  that  did  n't  belong 
to  me ;  and  of  course  I  know  nothing  about  it. 

SNOW.  You  were  at  the  house  this  morning;  you 
did  the  room  in  which  the  box  was  left;  you  were 
alone  in  the  room.  I  find  the  box  'ere.  You  say  you 
did  n't  take  it? 

MRS.  JONES.  Yes,  sir,  of  course  I  say  I  did  not  take 
it,  because  I  did  not. 

SNOW.     Then  how  does  the  box  come  to  be  here? 

MRS.  JONES.  I  would  rather  not  say  anything 
about  it. 

SNOW.     Is  this  your  husband? 

MRS.  JONES.     Yes,  sir,  this  is  my  husband,  sir. 

SNOW.  Do  you  wish  to  say  anything  before  I  take 
her? 

QONES   remains  silent,  with  his  head  bent 

down.] 

Well  then,  Missis.     I  '11  just  trouble  you  to  come  along 
with  me  quietly. 

MRS.  JONES.  [Twisting  her  hands.]  Of  course  I 
would  n't  say  I  had  n't  taken  it  if  I  had — and  I  did  n't 
take  it,  indeed  I  did  n't.  Of  course  I  know  appear- 
ances are  against  me,  and  I  can't  tell  you  what  really 
happened.  But  my  children  are  at  school,  and 
they'll  be  coming  home — and  I  don't  know  what 
they  '11  do  without  me! 

SNOW.  Your  'usband  '11  see  to  them,  don't  you 
worry.  [He  takes  the  woman  gently  by  the  arm. 

JONES.  You  drop  it — she's  all  right!  [Sullenly.] 
I  took  the  thing  myself. 

SNOW.  [Eyeing  him]  There,  there,  it  does  you 
credit.  Come  along,  Missis. 


42  The  Silver  Box  ACT  n 

JONES.  [Passionately.]  Drop  it,  I  say,  you  bloom- 
ing teck.  She  's  my  wife ;  she  's  a  respectable  woman. 
Take  her  if  you  dare ! 

SNOW.  Now,  now.  What's  the  good  of  this? 
Keep  a  civil  tongue,  and  it  '11  be  the  better  for  all  of 
us. 

[He  puts  his  whistle  in  his  mouth  and  draws 

the  woman  to  the  door.] 

JONES.     [With  a  rush.]     Drop  her,  and  put  up  your 

'ands,  or  I  '11  soon  make  yer.     You  leave  her  alone, 

will  yer!     Don't  I  tell  yer,  I  took  the  thing  myself! 

SNOW.     [Blowing  his  whistle.]     Drop  your  hands, 

or  I  '11  take  you  too.     Ah,  would  you? 

QONES,  closing,  deals  him  a  blow.  A  Police- 
man in  uniform  appears;  there  is  a  short 
struggle  and  JONES  is  overpowered.  MRS. 
JONES  raises  her  hands  and  drops  her  face 
on  them.] 

The  curtain  falls. 

SCENE   II 

The  BARTHWICKS'  dining-room  the  same  evening.     The 

BARTHWICKS  are  seated  at  dessert. 
MRS.    BARTHWICK.     John!      [A   silence  broken   by 
the  cracking  of  nuts.]     John ! 

BARTHWICK.  I  wish  you  'd  speak  about  the  nuts — 
they  're  uneatable.  [He  puts  one  in  his  mouth. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  It 's  not  the  season  for  them. 
I  called  on  the  Holyroods. 

[BARTHWICK  fills  his  glass  with  port. 
JACK.     Crackers,  please,  Dad. 

[BARTHWICK  passes  the  crackers.  His  de- 
meanour is  reflective.] 


sc.  "  The  Silver  Box  43 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Lady  Holyrood  has  got  very 
stout.  I  've  noticed  it  coming  for  a  long  time. 

BARTHWICK.  [Gloomily.]  Stout?  [He  takes  up 
the  crackers — with  transparent  airiness.]  The  Holy- 
roods  had  some  trouble  with  their  servants,  had  n't 
they? 

JACK.     Crackers,  please,  Dad. 

BARTHWICK.  {Passing  the  crackers.]  It  got  into 
the  papers.  The  cook,  was  n't  it? 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  No,  the  lady's  maid.  I  was 
talking  it  over  with  Lady  Holyrood.  The  girl  used  to 
have  her  young  man  to  see  her. 

BARTHWICK.  [Uneasily.]  I  'm  not  sure  they  were 
wise 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  My  dear  John,  what  are  you 
talking  about?  How  could  there  be  any  alternative? 
Think  of  the  effect  on  the  other  servants ! 

BARTHWICK.  Of  course  in  principle — I  was  n't 
thinking  of  that. 

JACK.     [Maliciously.]    Crackers,  please,  Dad. 

[BARTHWICK  is  compelled  to  pass  the  crackers. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Lady  Holyrood  told  me:  "I 
had  her  up,"  she  said;  "I  said  to  her,  'You  '11  leave 
my  house  at  once;  I  think  your  conduct  disgraceful. 
I  can't  tell,  I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  wish  to  know, 
what  you  were  doing.  I  send  you  away  on  principle ; 
you  need  not  come  to  me  for  a  character.'  And  the 
girl  said:  'If  you  don't  give  me  my  notice,  my  lady, 
I  want  a  month's  wages.  I  'm  perfectly  respectable. 
I  've  done  nothing.'  " — Done  nothing  ! 

BARTHWICK.     H'm! 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Servants  have  too  much  li- 
cense. They  hang  together  so  terribly  you  never 
can  tell  what  they  're  really  thinking;  it 's  as  if  they 


44  The  Silver  Box  ACT  n 

were  all  in  a  conspiracy  to  keep  you  in  the  dark.  Even 
with  Marlow,  you  feel  that  he  never  lets  you  know 
what 's  really  in  his  mind.  I  hate  that  secretiveness ; 
it  destroys  all  confidence.  I  feel  sometimes  I  should 
like  to  shake  him. 

JACK.  Marlow  's  a  most  decent  chap.  It 's  simply 
beastly  every  one  knowing  your  affairs. 

BARTHWICK.  The  less  you  say  about  that  the 
better! 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  It  goes  all  through  the  lower 
classes.  You  can  not  tell  when  they  are  speaking  the 
truth.  To-day  when  I  was  shopping  after  leaving 
the  Holyroods,  one  of  these  unemployed  came  up 
and  spoke  to  me.  I  suppose  I  only  had  twenty  yards 
or  so  to  walk  to  the  carriage,  but  he  seemed  to  spring 
up  in  the  street. 

BARTHWICK.  Ah!  You  must  be  very  careful 
whom  you  speak  to  in  these  days. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  I  did  n't  answer  him,  of  course. 
But  I  could  see  at  once  that  he  was  n't  telling  the 
truth. 

BARTHWICK.  [Cracking  a  nut.]  There  's  one  very 
good  rule — look  at  their  eyes. 

JACK.     Crackers,  please,  Dad. 

BARTHWICK.  [Passing  the  crackers.]  If  their  eyes 
are  straightforward  I  sometimes  give  them  sixpence. 
It 's  against  my  principles,  but  it 's  most  difficult  to 
refuse.  If  you  see  that  they  're  desperate,  and  dull, 
and  shifty-looking,  as  so  many  of  them  are,  it 's  cer- 
tain to  mean  drink,  or  crime,  or  something  unsatis- 
factory. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  This  man  had  dreadful  eyes. 
He  looked  as  if  he  could  commit  a  murder.  "I  've  'ad 
nothing  to  eat  to-day,"  he  said.  Just  like  that. 


sc.  H  The  Silver  Box  45 

BARTHWICK.  What  was  William  about?  He  ought 
to  have  been  waiting. 

JACK.  [Raising  his  wine-glass  to  his  nose.]  Is  this 
the  '63,  Dad? 

[BARTHWICK,  holding  his  wine-glass  to  his  eye, 
lowers  it  and  passes  it  before  his  nose.] 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  I  hate  people  that  can't  speak 
the  truth.  [Father  and  son  exchange  a  look  behind 
their  port.]  It 's  just  as  easy  to  speak  the  truth  as  not. 
I  've  always  found  it  easy  enough.  It  makes  it  impos- 
sible to  tell  what  is  genuine;  one  feels  as  if  one  were 
continually  being  taken  in. 

BARTHWICK.  [Sententiously.]  The  lower  classes 
are  their  own  enemies.  If  they  would  only  trust  us, 
they  would  get  on  so  much  better. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  But  even  then  it 's  so  often  their 
own  fault.  Look  at  that  Mrs.  Jones  this  morning. 

BARTHWICK.  I  only  want  to  do  what 's  right  in 
that  matter.  I  had  occasion  to  see  Roper  this  after- 
noon. I  mentioned  it  to  him.  He  's  coming  in  this 
evening.  It  all  depends  on  what  the  detective  says. 
I  've  had  my  doubts.  I  've  been  thinking  it  over. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  The  woman  impressed  me  most 
unfavourably.  She  seemed  to  have  no  shame.  That 
affair  she  was  talking  about — she  and  the  man  when 
they  were  young,  so  immoral!  And  before  you  and 
Jack!  I  could  have  put  her  out  of  the  room! 

BARTHWICK.  Oh!  I  don't  want  to  excuse  them, 
but  in  looking  at  these  matters  one  must  consider • 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Perhaps  you  '11  say  the  man's 
employer  was  wrong  in  dismissing  him? 

BARTHWICK.  Of  course  not.  It 's  not  there  that  I 
feel  doubt.  What  I  ask  myself  is 

JACK.     Port,  please,  Dad. 


46  The  Silver  Box  ACT  n 

BARTHWICK.  [Circulating  the  decanter  in  religious 
imitation  of  the  rising  and  setting  of  the  sun.]  I  ask 
myself  whether  we  are  sufficiently  careful  in  making 
inquiries  about  people  before  we  engage  them, 
especially  as  regards  moral  conduct. 

JACK.     Pass  the  port,  please,  Mother! 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  [Passing  it.]  My  dear  boy, 
are  n't  you  drinking  too  much? 

QACK  fills  his  glass. 

MARLOW.  [Entering.]  Detective  Snow  to  see  you, 
sir. 

BARTHWICK.  [Uneasily.]  Ah!  say  I  '11  be  with 
him  in  a  minute. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  [Without  turning.]  Let  him 
come  in  here,  Marlow. 

[SNOW  enters  in  an  overcoat,  his  bowler  hat  in 
hand.] 

BARTHWICK.      [Half -rising.]      Oh!     Good  evening! 

SNOW.  Good  evening,  sir;  good  evening,  ma'am. 
I  've  called  round  to  report  what  I  've  done,  rather 
late,  I  'm  afraid — another  case  took  me  away.  [He 
takes  the  silver  box  out  of  his  pocket,  causing  a  sensation 
in  the  BARTHWICK  family.]  This  is  the  identical 
article,  I  believe. 

BARTHWICK.     Certainly,  certainly. 

SNOW.  Havin'  your  crest  and  cypher,  as  you  de- 
scribed to  me,  sir,  I  'd  no  hesitation  in  the  matter. 

BARTHWICK.  Excellent.  Will  you  have  a  glass  of 
[he  glances  at  the  waning  port] — er — sherry — [pours 
out  sherry].  Jack,  just  give  Mr.  Snow  this. 

[JACK  rises  and  gives  the  glass  to  SNOW;  then, 
lolling  in  his  chair,  regards  him  indolently.] 

SNOW.  [Drinking  off  wine  and  putting  down  the 
glass.]  After  seeing  you  I  went  round  to  this  woman's 


sc.  ii  The  Silver  Box  47 

lodgings,  sir.  It 's  a  low  neighborhood,  and  I  thought 
it  as  well  to  place  a  constable  below — and  not  without 
'e  was  wanted,  as  things  turned  out. 

BARTHWICK.     Indeed! 

SNOW.  Yes,  sir,  I  'ad  some  trouble.  I  asked  her 
to  account  for  the  presence  of  the  article.  She  could 
give  me  no  answer,  except  to  deny  the  theft ;  so  I  took 
her  into  custody;  then  her  husband  came  for  me,  so 
I  was  obliged  to  take  him,  too,  for  assault.  He  was 
very  violent  on  the  way  to  the  station — very  violent 
— threatened  you  and  your  son,  and  altogether  he 
was  a  handful,  I  can  tell  you. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.     What  a  ruffian  he  must  be! 

SNOW.     Yes,  ma'am,  a  rough  customer. 

JACK.  [Sipping  his  wine,  bemused.]  Punch  the 
beggar's  head. 

SNOW.     Given  to  drink,  as  I  understand,  sir. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  It 's  to  be  hoped  he  will  get  a 
severe  punishment. 

SNOW.  The  odd  thing  is,  sir,  that  he  persists  in 
sayin'  he  took  the  box  himself. 

BARTHWICK.  Took  the  box  himself!  [He  smiles.] 
What  does  he  think  to  gain  by  that? 

SNOW.  He  says  the  young  gentleman  was  intoxi- 
cated last  night — QACK  stops  the  cracking  of  a  nut,  and 
looks  at  SNOW.  BARTHWICK,  losing  his  smile,  has  put 
his  wine-glass  down;  there  is  a  silence — SNOW,  looking 
from  face  to  face,  remarks] — took  him  into  the  house 
and  gave  him  whisky;  and  under  the  influence  of  an 
empty  stomach  the  man  says  he  took  the  box. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.     The  impudent  wretch! 

BARTHWICK.  D'  you  mean  that  he — er — intends 
to  put  this  forward  to-morrow 

SNOW.     That  '11  be  his  line,  sir;  but  whether  he  's 


48  The  Silver  Box  ACT  n 

endeavouring  to  shield  his  wife,  or  whether  [he  looks 
at  JACK]  there  's  something  in  it,  will  be  for  the 
magistrate  to  say. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  [Haughtily.]  Something  in 
what?  I  don't  understand  you.  As  if  my  son  would 
bring  a  man  like  that  into  the  house ! 

BARTHWICK.  [From  the  fireplace,  with  an  effort  to  be 
calm.]  My  son  can  speak  for  himself,  no  doubt. — 
Well,  Jack,  what  do  you  say? 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  [Sharply.]  What  does  he  say? 
Why,  of  course,  he  says  the  whole  story  's  stuff! 

JACK.  [Embarrassed]  Well,  of  course,  I  —  of 
course,  I  don't  know  anything  about  it. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  I  should  think  not,  indeed! 
[To  SNOW.]  The  man  is  an  audacious  ruffian! 

BARTHWICK.  [Suppressing  jumps]  But  in  view 
of  my  son's  saying  there  's  nothing  in  this — this  fable 
— will  it  be  necessary  to  proceed  against  the  man 
under  the  circumstances? 

SNOW.  We  shall  have  to  charge  him  with  the 
assault,  sir.  It  would  be  as  well  for  your  son  to  come 
down  to  the  Court.  There  '11  be  a  remand,  no  doubt. 
The  queer  thing  is  there  was  quite  a  sum  of  money 
found  on  him,  and  a  crimson  silk  purse.  [BARTHWICK 
starts;  JACK  rises  and  sits  down  again]  I  suppose 
the  lady  has  n't  missed  her  purse? 

BARTHWICK.     [Hastily]    Oh,  no!    Oh!  No! 

JACK.     No! 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  [Dreamily]  No!  [To  SNOW.] 
I  've  been  inquiring  of  the  servants.  This  man  does 
hang  about  the  house.  I  shall  feel  much  safer  if  he 
gets  a  good  long  sentence ;  I  do  think  we  ought  to  be 
protected  against  such  ruffians. 

BARTHWICK.     Yes,  yes,  of  course,  on  principle— 


sc.n  The  Silver  Box  49 

but  in  this  case  we  have  a  number  of  things  to  think  of. 
[To  SNOW.]  I  suppose,  as  you  say,  the  man  must  be 
charged,  eh? 

SNOW.     No  question  about  that,  sir. 

EARTH  WICK.  [Staring  gloomily  at  JACK.]  This 
prosecution  goes  very  much  against  the  grain  with  me. 
I  have  great  sympathy  with  the  poor.  In  my  posi- 
tion I  'm  bound  to  recognise  the  distress  there  is 
amongst  them.  The  condition  of  the  people  leaves 
much  to  be  desired.  D'  you  follow  me?  I  wish  I 
could  see  my  way  to  drop  it. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  [Sharply.]  John!  it's  simply 
not  fair  to  other  people.  It 's  putting  property  at  the 
mercy  of  any  one  who  likes  to  take  it. 

BARTHWICK.  [Trying  to  make  signs  to  her  aside.] 
I  'm  not  defending  him,  not  at  all.  I  'm  trying  to 
look  at  the  matter  broadly. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Nonsense,  John,  there  's  a  time 
for  everything. 

SNOW.  [Rather  sardonically.]  I  might  point  out, 
sir,  that  to  withdraw  the  charge  of  stealing  would 
not  make  much  difference,  because  the  facts  must 
come  out  [he  looks  significantly  at  JACK]  in  reference 
to  the  assault;  and  as  I  said  that  charge  will  have  to 
go  forward. 

BARTHWICK.  [Hastily.]  Yes,  oh!  exactly!  It's 
entirely  on  the  woman's  account — entirely  a  matter 
of  my  own  private  feelings. 

SNOW.  If  I  were  you,  sir,  I  should  let  things 
take  their  course.  It 's  not  likely  there  '11  be 
much  difficulty.  These  things  are  very  quick 
settled. 

BARTHWICK.    [Doubtfully.]    You  think  so — you 
think  so? 


50  The  Silver  Box  ACT  n 

JACK.  [Rousing  himself.]  I  say,  what  shall  I  have 
to  swear  to? 

SNOW.  That 's  best  known  to  yourself,  sir.  [Re- 
treating to  the  door.]  Better  employ  a  solicitor,  sir, 
in  case  anything  should  arise.  We  shall  have  the 
butler  to  prove  the  loss  of  the  article.  You  '11  excuse 
me  going,  I  'm  rather  pressed  to-night.  The  case 
may  come  on  any  time  after  eleven.  Good  evening, 
sir;  good  evening,  ma'am.  I  shall  have  to  produce 
the  box  in  court  to-morrow,  so  if  you  '11  excuse  me, 
sir,  I  may  as  well  take  it  with  me. 

[He  takes  the  silver  box  and  leaves  them  with  a 
little  bow.] 

[BARTHWICK  makes  a  move  to  follow  him,  then 
dashing  his  hands  beneath  his  coat  tails, 
speaks  with  desperation.] 

BARTHWICK.  I  do  wish  you  'd  leave  me  to  manage 
things  myself.  You  will  put  your  nose  into  matters 
you  know  nothing  of.  A  pretty  mess  you  've  made 
of  this! 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  [Coldly.]  I  don't  in  the  least 
know  what  you  're  talking  about.  If  you  can't 
stand  up  for  your  rights,  I  can.  I  've  no  patience 
with  your  principles,  it 's  such  nonsense. 

BARTHWICK.  Principles!  Good  Heavens!  What 
have  principles  to  do  with  it  for  goodness  sake? 
Don't  you  know  that  Jack  was  drunk  last  night! 

JACK.     Dad! 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.     [In  horror  rising.]    Jack! 

JACK.  Look  here,  Mother — I  had  supper.  Every- 
body does.  I  mean  to  say — you  know  what  I  mean 
— it 's  absurd  to  call  it  being  drunk.  At  Oxford 
everybody  gets  a  bit  "on"  sometimes 


sc.  n  The  Silver  Box  51 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Well,  I  think  it's  most  dread- 
ful! If  that  is  really  what  you  do  at  Oxford 

JACK.  [Angrily.]  Well,  why  did  you  send  me 
there?  One  must  do  as  other  fellows  do.  It 's  such 
nonsense,  I  mean,  to  call  it  being  drunk.  Of  course 
I  'm  awfully  sorry.  I  've  had  such  a  beastly  headache 
all  day. 

BARTHWICK.  Tcha!  If  you  'd  only  had  the  com- 
mon decency  to  remember  what  happened  when  you 
came  in.  Then  we  should  know  what  truth  there 
was  in  what  this  fellow  says — as  it  is,  it 's  all  the  most 
confounded  darkness. 

JACK.  [Staring  as  though  at  half-formed  visions.}  I 
just  get  a — and  then — it 's  gone 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Oh,  Jack!  do  you  mean  to  say 
you  were  so  tipsy  you  can't  even  remember 

JACK.  Look  here,  Mother  !  Of  course  I  remember 
I  came — I  must  have  come 

BARTHWICK.  [Unguardedly,  and  walking  up  and 
down.]  Tcha! — and  that  infernal  purse!  Good 
Heavens !  It  '11  get  into  the  papers.  Who  on  earth 
could  have  foreseen  a  thing  like  this?  Better  to 
have  lost  a  dozen  cigarette-boxes,  and  said  nothing 
about  it.  [To  his  wife.]  It 's  all  your  doing.  I 
told  you  so  from  the  first.  I  wish  to  goodness  Roper 
would  come! 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  [Sharply.]  I  don't  know  what 
you  're  talking  about,  John. 

BARTHWICK.  [Turning  on  her.]  No,  you — you — 
you  don't  know  anything!  [Sharply.]  Where  the 
devil  is  Roper?  If  he  can  see  a  way  out  of  this  he  's 
a  better  man  than  I  take  him  for.  I  defy  any  one  to 
see  a  way  out  of  it.  I  can't. 

JACK.     Look  here,  don't  excite  Dad — I  can  simply 


52  The  Silver  Box  ACT  n 

say  I  was  too  beastly  tired,  and  don't  remember  any- 
thing except  that  I  came  in  and  [in  a  dying  voice] 
went  to  bed  the  same  as  usual. 

BARTHWICK.  Went  to  bed?  Who  knows  where 
you  went — I  've  lost  all  confidence.  For  all  I  know 
you  slept  on  the  floor. 

JACK.     [Indignantly.]     I  did  n't,  I  slept  on  the 

BARTHWICK.  [Sitting  on  the  sofa.]  Who  cares 
where  you  slept;  what  does  it  matter  if  he  mentions 
the — the — a  perfect  disgrace? 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  What  ?  [A  silence.]  I  insist 
on  knowing. 

JACK.     Oh!  nothing 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Nothing?  What  do  you  mean 
by  nothing,  Jack?  There  's  your  father  in  such  a 
state  about  it 

JACK.     It 's  only  my  purse. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Your  purse!  You  know  per- 
fectly well  you  have  n't  got  one. 

JACK.  Well,  it  was  somebody  else's — it  was  all  a 
joke — I  did  n't  want  the  beastly  thing 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Do  you  mean  that  you  had 
another  person's  purse,  and  that  this  man  took  it 
too? 

BARTHWICK.  Tcha!  Of  course  he  took  it  too! 
A  man  like  that  Jones  will  make  the  most  of  it.  It  '11 
get  into  the  papers. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  I  don't  understand.  What  on 
earth  is  all  the  fuss  about?  [Bending  over  JACK,  and 
softly.')  Jack  now,  tell  me  dear!  Don't  be  afraid. 
What  is  it?  Come! 

JACK.     Oh,  don't  Mother! 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.     But  don't  what,  dear? 

JACK.     It  was  pure  sport.     I  don't  know  how  I  got 


sc.  n  The  Silver  Box  53 

the  thing.  Of  course  I  'd  had  a  bit  of  a  row — I 
did  n't  know  what  I  was  doing — I  was — I  was — well, 
you  know — I  suppose  I  must  have  pulled  the  bag 
out  of  her  hand. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Out  of  her  hand?  Whose 
hand?  What  bag — whose  bag? 

JACK.  Oh!  I  don't  know — her  bag — it  belonged 
to — [in  a  desperate  and  rising  voice]  a  woman. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.     A  woman?     Oh!  Jack!    No! 

JACK.  [Jumping  up.]  You  wouid  have  it.  I 
did  n't  want  to  tell  you.  It 's  not  my  fault. 

[The  door  opens  and  MARLOW  ushers  in  a  man 
of  middle  age,  inclined  to  corpulence,  in  even- 
ing dress.  He  has  a  ruddy,  thin  moustache, 
and  dark,  quick-moving  little  eyes.  His 
eyebrows  are  Chinese.] 

MARLOW.     Mr.  Roper,  sir.  [He  leaves  the  room. 

ROPER.  [With  a  quick  look  round.]  How  do  you 
do? 

[But  neither  JACK  nor  MRS.  BARTHWICK  make  a  sign. 

BARTHWICK.  [Hurrying.]  Thank  goodness  you  've 
come,  Roper.  You  remember  what  I  told  you  this 
afternoon ;  we  've  just  had  the  detective  here. 

ROPER.     Got  the  box? 

BARTHWICK.  Yes,  yes,  but  look  here — it  was  n't 
the  charwoman  at  all ;  her  drunken  loafer  of  a  husband 
took  the  things — he  says  that  fellow  there  [he  waves 
his  hand  at  JACK,  who  with  his  shoulder  raised,  seems 
trying  to  ward  off  a  blow]  let  him  into  the  house  last 
night.  Can  you  imagine  such  a  thing. 

[Roper  laughs. 

BARTHWICK.  [With  excited  emphasis.]  It 's  no 
laughing  matter,  Roper.  I  told  you  about  that  busi- 
ness of  Jack's  too — don't  you  see — the  brute  took 


54  The  Silver  Box  ACT  n 

both  the  things — took  that  infernal  purse.  It  '11  get 
into  the  papers. 

ROPER.     [Raising  his  eyebrows.]    H'm!    The  purse! 
Depravity  in  high  life!     What  does  your  son  say? 

BARTHWICK.     He    remembers   nothing.      D n! 

Did  you  ever  see  such  a  mess?  It  '11  get  into  the 
papers. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.     [With  her  hand  across  her  eyes.] 

Oh  lit 'snot  that 

[BARTHWICK  and  ROPER  turn  and  look  at 

her.] 
BARTHWICK.     It 's  the  idea  of  that  woman — she  's 

just  heard 

[ROPER  nods.  And  MRS.  BARTHWICK,  set- 
ting her  lips,  gives  a  slow  look  at  JACK,  and 
sits  down  at  the  table.] 

What  on  earth  's  to  be  done,  Roper?  A  ruffian  like 
this  Jones  will  make  all  the  capital  he  can  out  of  that 
purse. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.     I  don't  believe  that  Jack  took 
that  purse. 

BARTHWICK.     What — when  the  woman  came  here 
for  it  this  morning? 

MRS.    BARTHWICK.     Here?     She    had    the    impu- 
dence?    Why  was  n't  I  told? 

[She  looks  round  from  face  to  face — no  one 

answers  her,  there  is  a  pause.] 

BARTHWICK.     [Suddenly.]    What 's    to    be    done, 
Roper? 

ROPER.     [Quietly  to  JACK.]    I  suppose  you  did  n't 
leave  your  latch-key  in  the  door? 
JACK.     [Sullenly.]    Yes,  I  did. 
BARTHWICK.     Good  heavens!     What  next? 
MRS.  BARTHWICK.     I  'm  certain  you  never  let  that 


sc.  ii  The  Silver  Box  55 

man  into  the  house,  Jack,  it 's  a  wild  invention.     I  'm 
sure  there  's  not  a  word  of  truth  in  it,  Mr.  Roper. 

ROPER.  [Very  suddenly.]  Where  did  you  sleep 
last  night? 

JACK.  [Promptly.]  On  the  sofa,  there — [hesitat- 
ing] that  is — I 

BARTHWICK.  On  the  sofa?  D'  you  mean  to  say 
you  did  n't  go  to  bed? 

JACK.     [Sullenly.]    No. 

BARTHWICK.  If  you  don't  remember  anything, 
how  can  you  remember  that? 

JACK.     Because  I  woke  up  there  in  the  morning. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.     Oh,  Jack! 

BARTHWICK.     Good  Gracious! 

JACK.  And  Mrs.  Jones  saw  me.  I  wish  you 
would  n't  bait  me  so. 

ROPER.     Do  you  remember  giving  any  one  a  drink? 

JACK.     By  Jove,  I  do  seem  to  remember  a  fellow 

with — a  fellow  with [He  looks  at  Roper.]    I  say, 

d'  you  want  me ? 

ROPER.     [Quick  as  lightning.]    With  a  dirty  face? 

JACK.  [With  illumination.]  I  do — I  distinctly  re- 
member his 

[BARTHWICK  moves  abruptly;  MRS.  BARTH- 
WICK looks  at  ROPER  angrily,  and  touches 
her  son's  arm.] 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  You  don't  remember,  it 's 
ridiculous!  I  don't  believe  the  man  was  ever  here 
at  all. 

BARTHWICK.  You  must  speak  the  truth,  if  it  is  the 
truth.  But  if  you  do  remember  such  a  dirty  business, 
I  shall  wash  my  hands  of  you  altogether. 

JACK.     [Glaring  at  them.]    Well,  what  the  devil ' 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.     Jack! 


$6  The  Silver  Box  ACT  n 

JACK.  Well,  Mother,  I — I  don't  know  what  you  do 
want. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  We  want  you  to  speak  the 
truth  and  say  you  never  let  this  low  man  into  the 
house. 

BARTHWICK.  Of  course  if  you  think  that  you 
really  gave  this  man  whisky  in  that  disgraceful  way, 
and  let  him  see  what  you  *d  been  doing,  and  were  in 
such  a  disgusting  condition  that  you  don't  remember  a 
word  of  it 

ROPER.  [Quick.]  I  've  no  memory  myself — never 
had. 

BARTHWICK.  [Desperately.']  I  don't  know  what 
you  're  to  say. 

ROPER  [To  JACK.]  Say  nothing  at  all!  Don't 
put  yourself  in  a  false  position.  The  man  stole  the 
things  or  the  woman  stole  the  things,  you  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  You  were  asleep  on  the  sofa. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Your  leaving  the  latch-key  in 
the  door  was  quite  bad  enough,  there's  no  need 
to  mention  anything  else.  [Touching  his  forehead 
softly.]  My  dear,  how  hot  your  head  is! 

JACK.  But  I  want  to  know  what  I  'm  to  do.  [Pas- 
sionately.] I  won't  be  badgered  like  this. 

[MRS.  BARTHWICK  recoils  from  him. 

ROPER.  [Very  quickly.]  You  forget  all  about  it. 
You  were  asleep. 

JACK.     Must  I  go  down  to  the  Court  to-morrow? 

ROPER.     [Shaking  his  head.]    No. 

BARTHWICK.     [In  a  relieved  voice.]    Is  that  so? 

ROPER.    Yes. 

BARTHWICK.     But  you  'II  go,  Roper. 

ROPER.     Yes. 

JACK.     [With  wan  cheerfulness.]    Thanks,  awfully! 


sc. «  The  Silver  Box  57 

So  long  as  I  don't  have  to  go.  [Putting  his  hand  up  to 
his  head.]  I  think  if  you  '11  excuse  me — I  've  had  a 
most  beastly  day.  [He  looks  from  his  father  to  his 
mother.] 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  [Turning quickly.]  Goodnight, 
my  boy. 

JACK.     Good-night,  Mother. 

[He  goes  out.     MRS.    BARTHWICK  heaves  a 
sigh.     There  is  a  silence.] 

BARTHWICK.  He  gets  off  too  easily.  But  for  my 
money  that  woman  would  have  prosecuted  him. 

ROPER.     You  find  money  useful. 

BARTHWICK.  I  've  my  doubts  whether  we  ought 
to  hide  the  truth 

ROPER.     There  '11  be  a  remand. 

BARTHWICK,  What!  D' you  mean  he'll  have  to 
appear  on  the  remand. 

ROPER.     Yes. 

BARTHWICK.     H'm,  I  thought  you  'd  be  able  to 

Look  here,  Roper,  you  must  keep  that  purse  out  of  the 
papers.  [ROPER  fixes  his  little  eyes  on  him  and 
nods.] 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Mr.  Roper,  don't  you  think  the 
magistrate  ought  to  be  told  what  sort  of  people  these 
Jones's  are;  I  mean  about  their  immorality  before 
they  were  married.  I  don't  know  if  John  told  you. 

ROPER.     Afraid  it 's  not  material. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.     Not  material? 

ROPER.  Purely  private  life!  May  have  happened 
to  the  magistrate. 

BARTHWICK.  [With  a  movement  as  if  to  shift  a  bur- 
den.] Then  you  '11  take  the  thing  into  your  hands? 

ROPER.  If  the  gods  are  kind.  [He  holds  his  hand 
out.] 


58  The  Silver  Box  ACT  n 

EARTH  WICK.  [Shaking  it  dubiously.]  Kind — eh? 
What?  You  going? 

ROPER.  Yes.  I  've  another  case,  something  like 
yours — most  unexpected. 

[He  bows  to  MRS.  BARTHWICK,  and  goes  out, 
followed  by  BARTHWICK,  talking  to  the  last. 
MRS.  BARTHWICK  at  the  table  bursts  into 
smothered  sobs.  BARTHWICK  returns.] 

BARTHWICK.     [To  himself.]     There  '11  be  a  scandal! 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  [Disguising  her  grief  at  once.]  I 
simply  can't  imagine  what  Roper  means  by  making 
a  joke  of  a  thing  like  that ! 

BARTHWICK.  [Staring  strangely.]  You!  You  can't 
imagine  anything!  You  've  no  more  imagination 
than  a  fly! 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  [Angrily.]  You  dare  to  tell  me 
that  I  have  no  imagination. 

BARTHWICK.  [Flustered.]  I — I  'm  upset.  From 
beginning  to  end,  the  whole  thing  has  been  utterly 
against  my  principles. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  Rubbish!  You  haven't  any! 
Your  principles  are  nothing  in  the  world  but  sheer — 
fright! 

BARTHWICK.  [Walking  to  the  window.]  I  Ve 
never  been  frightened  in  my  life.  You  heard  what 
Roper  said.  It 's  enough  to  upset  one  when  a  thing 
like  this  happens.  Everything  one  says  and  does 
seems  to  turn  in  one's  mouth — it 's  — it 's  uncanny. 
It 's  not  the  sort  of  thing  I  've  been  accustomed 
to.  [As  though  stifling,  he  throws  the  window  open. 
The  faint  sobbing  of  a  child  comes  in.]  What 's 
that? 

[They  listen. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.     [Sharply.]    I  can't  stand  that 


sc- «  The  Silver  Box  59 

crying.     I  must  send  Marlow  to  stop  it.     My  nerves 

are  all  on  edge.  [She  rings  the  bell. 

BARTHWICK.     I  '11  shut  the  window;  you  '11  hear 

nothing.  [He  shuts  the  window.     There  is  silence. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.     [Sharply.]     That's  no  good! 

It 's  on  my  nerves.     Nothing  upsets  me  like  a  child's 

crying.     [MARLOW  comes  in.]    What 's  that  noise  of 

crying,  Marlow?     It  sounds  like  a  child. 

BARTHWICK.  It  is  a  child.  I  can  see  it  against  the 
railings. 

MARLOW.  [Opening  the  window,  and  looking  out — 
quietly.]  It's  Mrs.  Jones's  little  boy,  ma'am;  he 
came  here  after  his  mother. 

MRS.  BARTHWICK.  [Moving  quickly  to  the  window.] 
Poor  little  chap!  John,  we  ought  n't  to  go  on  with 
this! 

BARTHWICK.  [Sitting  heavily  in  a  chair.]  Ah! 
but  it 's  out  of  our  hands ! 

[MRS.  BARTHWICK  turns  her  back  to  the  win- 
dow. There  is  an  expression  of  distress  on 
her  face.  She  stands  motionless,  compress- 
ing her  lips.  The  crying  begins  again. 
BARTHWICK  covers  his  ears  with  his  hands, 
and  MARLOW  shuts  the  window.  The  cry- 
ing ceases.] 

The  curtain  falls. 


ACT  III 

Eight  days  have  passed,  and  the  scene  is  a  London 
Police  Court  at  one  o'clock.  A  canopied  seat  of 
Justice  is  surmounted  by  the  lion  and  unicorn. 
Before  the  fire  a  worn-looking  MAGISTRATE  is 
warming  his  coat-tails,  and  staring  at  two  little 
girls  in  faded  blue  and  orange  rags,  who  are  placed 
before  the  dock.  Close  to  the  witness-box  is  a  RE- 
LIEVING OFFICER  in  an  overcoat,  and  a  short  brown 
beard.  Beside  the  little  girls  stands  a  bald  POLICE 
CONSTABLE.  On  the  front  bench  are  sitting  BARTH- 
WICK  and  ROPER,  and  behind  them  JACK.  In  the 
railed  enclosure  are  seedy-looking  men  and  women. 
Some  prosperous  constables  sit  or  stand  about. 
MAGISTRATE.  [In  his  paternal  and  ferocious  voice, 
hissing  his  s's.]  Now  let  us  dispose  of  these  young 
ladies. 

USHER.     Theresa  Livens,  Maud  Livens. 

[The  bald  CONSTABLE  indicates  the  little  girls, 
who  remain  silent,  disillusioned,  inatten- 
tive.} 
Relieving  Officer! 

[The  RELIEVING  OFFICER  steps  into  the  witness- 
box.] 

USHER.  The  evidence  you  give  to  the  Court  shall 
be  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth,  so  help  you  God!  Kiss  the  book! 

[The  book  is  kissed. 
60 


ACT  m  The  Silver  Box  61 

RELIEVING  OFFICER.  [In  a  monotone,  pausing 
slightly  at  each  sentence  end,  that  his  evidence  may  be 
inscribed.]  About  ten  o'clock  this  morning,  your 
Worship,  I  found  these  two  little  girls  in  Blue  Street, 
Pulham,  crying  outside  a  public-house.  Asked  where 
their  home  was,  they  said  they  had  no  home.  Mother 
had  gone  away.  Asked  about  their  father.  Their 
father  had  no  work.  Asked  where  they  slept  last 
night.  At  their  aunt's.  I  've  made  inquiries,  your 
Worship.  The  wife  has  broken  up  the  home  and  gone 
on  the  streets.  The  husband  is  out  of  work  and  living 
in  common  lodging-houses.  The  husband's  sister  has 
eight  children  of  her  own,  and  says  she  can't  afford 
to  keep  these  little  girls  any  longer. 

MAGISTRATE.  [Returning  to  his  seat  beneath  the 
canopy  of  Justice.]  Now,  let  me  see.  You  say  the 
mother  is  on  the  streets;  what  evidence  have  you  of 
that? 

RELIEVING  OFFICER.  I  have  the  husband  here, 
your  Worship. 

MAGISTRATE.     Very  well;  then  let  us  see  him. 

[There  are  cries  of  "  LIVENS."  The  MAGIS- 
TRATE leans  forward,  and  stares  with  hard 
compassion  at  the  little  girls.  LIVENS 
comes  in.  He  is  quiet,  with  grizzled  hair, 
and  a  muffler  for  a  collar.  He  stands 
beside  the  witness-box.] 

And  you  are  their  father?  Now,  why  don't  you 
keep  your  little  girls  at  home.  How  is  it  you  leave 
them  to  wander  about  the  streets  like  this? 

LIVENS.     I  've  got  no  home,  your  Worship.     I  'm 
living  from  'and  to  mouth.     I  've  got  no  work;  and 
nothin'  to  keep  them  on. 
MAGISTRATE.     How  is  that? 


62  The  Silver  Box  ACT  m 

LIVENS.  [Ashamedly.]  My  wife,  she  broke  my 
'ome  up,  and  pawned  the  things. 

MAGISTRATE.     But  what  made  you  let  her? 

LEVINS.  Your  Worship,  I  'd  no  chance  to  stop  'er, 
she  did  it  when  I  was  out  lookin'  for  work. 

MAGISTRATE.     Did  you  ill-treat  her? 

LIVENS.  [Emphatically.]  I  never  raised  my  'and 
to  her  in  my  life,  your  Worship. 

MAGISTRATE.     Then  what  was  it — did  she  drink? 

LIVENS.     Yes,  your  Worship. 

MAGISTRATE.     Was  she  loose  in  her  behaviour? 

LIVENS.     [In  a  low  voice.]    Yes,  your  Worship. 

MAGISTRATE.     And  where  is  she  now? 

LIVENS.  I  don't  know  your  Worship.  She  went 
off  with  a  man,  and  after  that  I — — • 

MAGISTRATE.  Yes,  yes.  Who  knows  anything  of 
her?  [To  the  bald  CONSTABLE.]  Is  she  known  here? 

RELIEVING  OFFICER.  Not  in  this  district,  your 
Worship;  but  I  have  ascertained  that  she  is  well 
known 

MAGISTRATE.  Yes — yes ;  we '11  stop  at  that.  Now 
[To  the  Father]  you  say  that  she  has  broken  up  your 
home,  and  left  these  little  girls.  What  provision 
can  you  make  for  them?  You  look  a  strong  man. 

LIVENS.  So  I  am,  your  Worship.  I  'm  willin' 
enough  to  work,  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  can't  get 
anything  to  do. 

MAGISTRATE.     But  have  you  tried? 

LIVENS.  I  've  tried  everything,  your  Worship — 
I  've  tried  my  'ardest. 

MAGISTRATE.     Well,  well [There  is  a  silence. 

RELIEVING  OFFICER.  If  your  Worship  thinks  it 's  a 
case,  my  people  are  willing  to  take  them. 

MAGISTRATE.     Yes,  yes,  I  know;  but  I  've  no  evi- 


ACT  in  The  Silver  Box  63 

dence  that  this  man  is  not  the  proper  guardian  for 
his  children.  [He  rises  and  goes  back  to  the  fire. 

RELIEVING  OFFICER.  The  mother,  your  Worship, 
is  able  to  get  access  to  them. 

MAGISTRATE.  Yes,  yes ;  the  mother,  of  course,  is  an 
improper  person  to  have  anything  to  do  with  them. 
[To  the  Father.]  Well,  now  what  do  you  say? 

LIVENS.  Your  Worship,  I  can  only  say  that  if  I 
could  get  work  I  should  be  only  too  willing  to  pro- 
vide for  them.  But  what  can  I  do,  your  Worship? 
Here  I  am  obliged  to  live  from  'and  to  mouth  in 
these  'ere  common  lodging-houses.  I  'm  a  strong 
man — I  'm  willing  to  work — I  'm  half  as  alive  again 
as  some  of  'em — but  you  see,  your  Worship,  my  'airs' 
turned  a  bit,  owing  to  the  fever — [Touches  his  hair] — 
and  that's  against  me;  and  I  don't  seem  to  get  a 
chance  anyhow. 

MAGISTRATE.  Yes — yes.  [Slowly.]  Well,  I  think 
it 's  a  case.  [Staring  his  hardest  at  the  little  girls.] 
Now,  are  you  willing  that  these  little  girls  should  be 
sent  to  a  home. 

LIVENS.  Yes,  your  Worship,  I  should  be  very 
willing. 

MAGISTRATE.  Well,  I  '11  remand  them  for  a  week. 
Bring  them  again  to-day  week;  if  I  see  no  reason 
against  it  then,  I  '11  make  an  order. 

RELIEVING  OFFICER.     To-day  week,  your  Worship. 

[The  bald  CONSTABLE  takes  the  little  girls  out 

by  the  shoulders.     The  father  follows  them. 

The   MAGISTRATE,    returning   to   his   seat, 

bends  over  and  talks  to  his  CLERK  inaudibly.] 

BARTHWICK.  [Speaking  behind  his  hand.]  A  pain- 
ful case,  Roper ;  very  distressing  state  of  things. 

ROPER.     Hundreds  like  this  in  the  Police  Courts. 


64  The  Silver  Box  ACT  m 

BARTHWICK.  Most  distressing!  The  more  I  see  of 
it,  the  more  important  this  question  of  the  condition 
of  the  people  seems  to  become.  I  shall  certainly 
make  a  point  of  taking  up  the  cudgels  in  the  House. 

I  shall  move 

[The  MAGISTRATE  ceases  talking  to  his  CLERK. 

CLERK.     Remands! 

[BARTHWICK  stops  abruptly.  There  is  a  stir  and  MRS. 
JONES  comes  in  by  the  public  door;  JONES,  ushered 
by  policemen,  comes  from  the  prisoner's  door. 
They  file  into  the  dock.] 

CLERK.     James  Jones,  Jane  Jones. 
USHER.     Jane  Jones! 

BARTHWICK.  [In  a  whisper.]  The  purse — the 
purse  must  be  kept  out  of  it,  Roper.  Whatever  hap- 
pens you  must  keep  that  out  of  the  papers. 

[ROPER  nods. 
BALD  CONSTABLE.     Hush! 

[MRS.  JONES,  dressed  in  her  thin,  black,  wispy 
dress,  and  black  straw  hat,  stands  motionless 
with  hands  crossed  on  the  front  rail  of  the 
dock.  JONES  leans  against  the  back  rail  of 
the  dock,  and  keeps  half  turning,  glancing 
defiantly  about  him.  He  is  haggard  and 
unshaven.] 

CLERK.  [Consulting  with  his  papers.]  This  is  the 
case  remanded  from  last  Wednesday,  sir.  Theft  of 
a  silver  cigarette-box  and  assault  on  the  police;  the 
two  charges  were  taken  together.  Jane  Jones !  James 
Jones ! 

MAGISTRATE.     [Staring.]    Yes,  yes;  I  remember. 
CLERK.    Jane  Jones. 


ACT  m  The  Silver  Box  65 

MRS.  JONES.    Yes,  sir. 

CLERK.  Do  you  admit  stealing  a  silver  cigarette- 
box  valued  at  five  pounds,  ten  shillings,  from  the 
house  of  John  Barthwick,  M.P.,  between  the  hours 
of  ii  P.M.  on  Easter  Monday  and  8.45  A.M.  on  Easter 
Tuesday  last?  Yes,  or  no? 

MRS.  JONES.    [In  a  low  voice.]    No,  sir,  I  do  not,  sir. 

CLERK.  James  Jones?  Do  you  admit  stealing  a 
silver  cigarette-box  valued  at  five  pounds,  ten  shillings, 
from  the  house  of  John  Barthwick,  M.P.,  between  the 
hours  of  ii  P.M.  on  Easter  Monday  and  8.45  A.M.  on 
Easter  Tuesday  last.  And  further  making  an  assault 
on  the  police  when  in  the  execution  of  their  duty  at 
3  P.M.  on  Easter  Tuesday?  Yes  or  no? 

JONES.  [Sulknly.]  Yes,  but  I  've  got  a  lot  to  say 
about  it. 

MAGISTRATE.  [To  the  CLERK.]  Yes — yes.  But 
how  comes  it  that  these  two  people  are  charged  with 
the  same  offence?  Are  they  husband  and  wife? 

CLERK.  Yes,  sir.  You  remember  you  ordered  a 
remand  for  further  evidence  as  to  the  story  of  the 
male  prisoner. 

MAGISTRATE.     Have  they  been  in  custody  since? 

CLERK.  You  released  the  woman  on  her  own  recog- 
nisances, sir. 

MAGISTRATE.  Yes,  yes,  this  is  the  case  of  the  silver 
box;  I  remember  now.  Well? 

CLERK.    Thomas  Marlow. 

[The  cry  of  "THOMAS  MARLOW"  is  repeated 
MARLOW  comes  in,  and  steps  into  the  wit- 
ness-box.] 

USHER.     The  evidence  you  give  to  the  court  shall 
be  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth,  so  help  you  God.     Kiss  the  book. 
s 


66  The  Silver  Box  ACT  m 

[The  book  is  kissed.     The  silver  box  is  handed 
up,  and  placed  on  the  rail.] 

CLERK.  [Reading  from  his  papers.]  Your  name  is 
Thomas  Mario w?  Are  you  butler  to  John  Barth- 
wick,  M.P.,  of  6,  Rockingham  Gate? 

MARLOW.     Yes,  sir. 

CLERK.     Is  that  the  box? 

MARLOW.     Yes  sir. 

CLERK.  And  did  you  miss  the  same  at  8.45  on  the 
following  morning,  on  going  to  remove  the  tray? 

MARLOW.     Yes,  sir. 

CLERK.     Is  the  female  prisoner  known  to  you? 

[MARLOW  nods. 

Is  she  the  charwoman  employed  at  6,  Rockingham 
Gate? 

[Again  MARLOW  nods. 

Did  you  at  the  time  of  your  missing  the  box  find 
her  in  the  room  alone? 

MARLOW.     Yes,  sir. 

CLERK.  Did  you  afterwards  communicate  the  loss 
to  your  employer,  and  did  he  send  you  to  the  police 
station? 

MARLOW.     Yes,  sir. 

CLERK.  [To  MRS.  JONES.]  Have  you  anything  to 
ask  him? 

MRS.  JONES.     No,  sir,  nothing,  thank  you,  sir. 

CLERK.  [To  JONES.]  James  Jones,  have  you  any- 
thing to  ask  this  witness  ? 

JONES.     I  don't  know  'im. 

MAGISTRATE.  Are  you  sure  you  put  the  box  in  the 
place  you  say  at  the  time  you  say? 

MARLOW.     Yes,  your  Worship. 

MAGISTRATE.  Very  well;  then  now  let  us  have  the 
officer., 


ACT  m  The  Silver  Box  67 

[MARLOW  leaves  the  box,  and  SNOW  goes  into  it. 

USHER.  The  evidence  you  give  to  the  court  shall 
be  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth,  so  help  you  God.  [The  book  is  kissed. 

CLERK.  [Reading  from  his  papers.]  Your  name  is 
Robert  Snow?  You  are  a  detective  in  the  X.  B. 
division  of  the  Metropolitan  police  force?  According 
to  instructions  received  did  you  on  Easter  Tuesday 
last  proceed  to  the  prisoner's  lodgings  at  34,  Merthyr 
Street,  St.  Soames's?  And  did  you  on  entering  see 
the  box  produced,  lying  on  the  table? 

SNOW.     Yes,  sir. 

CLERK.     Is  that  the  box? 

SNOW.     [Fingering  the  box.]     Yes,  sir. 

CLERK.  And  did  you  thereupon  take  possession  of 
it,  and  charge  the  female  prisoner  with  theft  of  the 
box  from  6,  Rockingham  Gate?  And  did  she  deny  the 
same? 

SNOW.     Yes,  sir. 

CLERK.     Did  you  take  her  into  custody? 

SNOW.     Yes,  sir. 

MAGISTRATE.     What  was  her  behaviour? 

SNOW.  Perfectly  quiet,  your  Worship.  She  per- 
sisted in  the  denial.  That 's  all. 

MAGISTRATE.     Do  you  know  her? 

SNOW.     No,  your  Worship. 

MAGISTRATE.     Is  she  known  here? 

BALD  CONSTABLE.  No,  your  Worship,  they  're 
neither  of  them  known,  we  've  nothing  against  them 
at  all. 

CLERK.  [To  MRS.  JONES.]  Have  you  anything  to 
ask  the  officer? 

MRS.  JONES.  No,  sir,  thank  you,  I  've  nothing  to 
ask  him. 


68  The  Silver  Box  ACT  m 

MAGISTRATE.     Very  well  then — go  on. 

CLERK.  [Reading  from  his  papers.]  And  while  you 
were  taking  the  female  prisoner  did  the  male  prisoner 
interpose,  and  endeavour  to  hinder  you  in  the  execu- 
tion of  your  duty,  and  did  he  strike  you  a  blow? 

SNOW.     Yes,  sir. 

CLERK.  And  did  he  say,  "You  let  her  go,  I  took 
the  box  myself"? 

SNOW.     He  did. 

CLERK.  And  did  you  blow  your  whistle  and  obtain 
the  assistance  of  another  constable,  and  take  him 
into  custody? 

SNOW.     I  did. 

CLERK.  Was  he  violent  on  the  way  to  the  station, 
and  did  he  use  bad  language,  and  did  he  several 
times  repeat  that  he  had  taken  the  box  himself? 

[SNOW  nods. 

Did  you  thereupon  ask  him  in  what  manner  he 
had  stolen  the  box?  And  did  you  understand  him 
to  say  he  had  entered  the  house  at  the  invitation  of 
young  Mr.  Earth  wick 

[EARTH WICK,  turning  in  his  seat,  frowns  at 

ROPER.] 

after  midnight  on  Easter  Monday,  and  partaken  of 
whisky,  and  that  under  the  influence  of  the  whisky 
he  had  taken  the  box? 

SNOW.     I  did,  sir. 

CLERK.  And  was  his  demeanour  throughout  very 
violent? 

SNOW.     It  was  very  violent. 

JONES.  [Breaking  in.]  Violent — of  course  it  was! 
You  put  your  'ands  on  my  wife  when  I  kept  tellin' 
you  I  took  the  thing  myself. 

MAGISTRATE.     [Hissing,  with  protruded  neck.]    Now 


ACT  m  The  Silver  Box  69 

— you  will  have  your  chance  of  saying  what  you 
want  to  say  presently.  Have  you  anything  to  ask  the 
officer? 

JONES.     [Sullenly.]    No. 

MAGISTRATE.  Very  well  then.  Now  let  us  hear 
what  the  female  prisoner  has  to  say  first. 

MRS.  JONES.  Well,  your  Worship,  of  course  I  can 
only  say  what  I  've  said  all  along,  that  I  did  n't  take 
the  box. 

MAGISTRATE.  Yes,  but  did  you  know  that  it  was 
taken? 

MRS.  JONES.  No,  your  Worship.  And,  of  course, 
to  what  my  husband  says,  your  Worship,  I  can't 
speak  of  my  own  knowledge.  Of  course,  I  know 
that  he  came  home  very  late  on  the  Monday  night. 
It  was  past  one  o'clock  when  he  came  in,  and  he  was 
not  himself  at  all. 

MAGISTRATE.     Had  he  been  drinking? 

MRS.  JONES.     Yes,  your  Worship. 

MAGISTRATE.     And  was  he  drunk? 

MRS.  JONES.  Yes,  your  Worship,  he  was  almost 
quite  drunk. 

MAGISTRATE.     And  did  he  say  anything  to  you? 

MRS.  JONES.  No,  your  Worship,  only  to  call  me 
names.  And  of  course  in  the  morning  when  I  got 
up  and  went  to  work  he  was  asleep.  And  I  don't 
know  anything  more  about  it  until  I  came  home 
again.  Except  that  Mr.  Barthwick — that 's  my  em- 
ployer, your  Worship — told  me  the  box  was  missing. 

MAGISTRATE.     Yes,  yes. 

MRS.  JONES.  But  of  course  when  I  was  shaking  out 
my  husband's  coat  the  cigarette-box  fell  out  and  all 
the  cigarettes  were  scattered  on  the  bed. 

MAGISTRATE.     You    say    all    the    cigarettes    were 


70  The  Silver  Box  ACT  m 

scattered  on  the  bed?  [To  SNOW.]  Did  you  see 
the  cigarettes  scattered  on  the  bed? 

SNOW.     No,  your  Worship,  I  did  not. 

MAGISTRATE.     You  see  he  says  he  did  n't  see  them. 

JONES.     Well,  they  were  there  for  all  that. 

SNOW.  I  can't  say,  your  Worship,  that  I  had  the 
opportunity  of  going  round  the  room;  I  had  all  my 
work  cut  out  with  the  male  prisoner. 

MAGISTRATE.  [To  MRS.  JONES.]  Well,  what  more 
have  you  to  say? 

MRS.  JONES.  Of  course  when  I  saw  the  box,  your 
Worship,  I  was  dreadfully  upset,  and  I  could  n't  think 
why  he  had  done  such  a  thing;  when  the  officer 
came  we  were  having  words  about  it,  because 
it  is  ruin  to  me,  your  Worship,  in  my  profes- 
sion, and  I  have  three  little  children  dependent 
on  me. 

MAGISTRATE.  [Protruding  his  neck].  Yes — yes — 
but  what  did  he  say  to  you? 

MRS.  JONES.  I  asked  him  whatever  came  over  him 
to  do  such  a  thing — and  he  said  it  was  the  drink. 
He  said  he  had  had  too  much  to  drink,  and  some- 
thing came  over  him.  And  of  course,  your  Worship, 
he  had  had  very  little  to  eat  all  day,  and  the  drink 
does  go  to  the  head  when  you  have  not  had  enough 
to  eat.  Your  Worship  may  not  know,  but  it  is  the 
truth.  And  I  would  like  to  say  that  all  through  his 
married  life,  I  have  never  known  him  to  do  such 
a  thing  before,  though  we  have  passed  through  great 
hardships  and  [speaking  with  soft  emphasis]  I  am  quite 
sure  he  would  not  have  done  it  if  he  had  been  him- 
self at  the  time. 

MAGISTRATE.  Yes,  yes.  But  don't  you  know  that 
that  is  no  excuse? 


ACT  in  The  Silver  Box  71 

MRS.  JONES.  Yes,  your  Worship.  I  know  that  it 
is  no  excuse. 

[The  MAGISTRATE  leans  over  and  parleys  with 
his  CLERK.] 

JACK.  [Leaning  over  from  his  seat  behind.]  I  say, 
Dad— 

B  ARTHWICK.  Tsst !  [Sheltering  his  mouth  he  speaks 
to  ROPER.]  Roper,  you  had  better  get  up  now 
and  say  that  considering  the  circumstances  and  the 
poverty  of  the  prisoners,  we  have  no  wish  to  proceed 
any  further,  and  if  the  magistrate  would  deal  with  the 
case  as  one  of  disorder  only  on  the  part  of 

BALD  CONSTABLE.     Hssshh! 

[ROPER  shakes  his  head. 

MAGISTRATE.  Now,  supposing  what  you  say  and 
what  your  husband  says  is  true,  what  I  have  to  con- 
sider is — how  did  he  obtain  access  to  this  house, 
and  were  you  in  any  way  a  party  to  his  obtaining 
access?  You  are  the  charwoman  employed  at  the 
house? 

MRS.  JONES.  Yes,  your  Worship,  and  of  course  if  I 
had  let  him  into  the  house  it  would  have  been  very 
wrong  of  me ;  and  I  have  never  done  such  a  thing  in 
any  of  the  houses  where  I  have  been  employed. 

MAGISTRATE.  Well — so  you  say.  Now  let  us  hear 
what  story  the  male  prisoner  makes  of  it. 

JONES.  [Who  leans  with  his  arms  on  the  dock  behind, 
speaks  in  a  slow,  sullen  voice.]  Wot  I  say  is  wot  my 
wife  says.  I  've  never  been  'ad  up  in  a  police  court 
before,  an'  I  can  prove  I  took  it  when  in  liquor.  I 
told  her,  and  she  can  tell  you  the  same,  that  I  was 
goin'  to  throw  the  thing  into  the  water  sooner  then  'ave 
it  on  my  mind. 

MAGISTRATE.     But  how  did  you  get  into  the  house  ? 


72  The  Silver  Box  ACT  m 

JONES.  I  was  passin'.  I  was  goin*  'ome  from  the 
"Goat  and  Bells." 

MAGISTRATE.  The  "Goat  and  Bells," — what  is 
that?  A  public-house? 

JONES.  Yes,  at  the  corner.  It  was  Bank  'oliday, 
an'  I'd  'ad  a  drop  to  drink.  I  see  this  young  Mr. 
Barthwick  tryin'  to  find  the  keyhole  on  the  wrong 
side  of  the  door. 

MAGISTRATE.     Well? 

JONES.  [Slowly  and  with  many  pauses.]  Well — • 
— I  'elped  'im  to  find  it — drunk  as  a  lord  'e  was.  He 
goes  on,  an'  comes  back  again,  and  says,  I  've  got 
nothin'  for  you,  'e  says,  but  come  in  an'  'ave  a  drink. 
So  I  went  in  just  as  you  might  'ave  done  yourself.  We 
'ad  a  drink  o'  whisky  just  as  you  might  have  'ad,  'nd 
young  Mr.  Barthwick  says  to  me,  "Take  a  drink  'nd 
a  smoke.  Take  anything  you  like,  'e  says."  And 
then  he  went  to  sleep  on  the  sofa.  I  'ad  some  more 
whisky — an'  I  'ad  a  smoke — and  I  'ad  some  more 
whisky — an'  I  carn't  tell  yer  what  'appened  after 
that. 

MAGISTRATE.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  were 
so  drunk  that  you  can  remember  nothing? 

JACK.  [Softly  to  his  father.]  I  say,  that 's  exactly 
what 

BARTHWICK.     Tssh! 

JONES.     That 's  what  I  do  mean. 

MAGISTRATE.  And  yet  you  say  you  stole  the 
box? 

JONES.     I  never  stole  the  box.     I  took  it. 

MAGISTRATE.  [Hissing  with  protruded  neck.]  You 
did  not  steal  it — you  took  it.  Did  it  belong  to  you — • 
what  is  that  but  stealing? 

JONES.     I  took  it. 


ACT  m  The  Silver  Box  73 

MAGISTRATE.     You  took  it — you  took  it  away  from 

their  house  and  you  took  it  to  your  house 

JONES.     [Sullenly  breaking  in.]    I  ain't  got  a  house. 
MAGISTRATE.     Very  well,   let  us  hear  what  this 
young  man  Mr. — Mr.  Barthwick — has  to  say  to  your 
story. 

[SNOW    leaves    the   witness-box.     The    BALD 

CONSTABLE  beckons  JACK,  who,  clutching 

his  hat,  goes  into  the  witness-box.     ROPER 

moves  to  the  table  set  apart  for  his  profession.] 

-   SWEARING  CLERK.     The  evidence  you  give  to  the 

court  shall  be  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing 

but  the  truth,  so  help  you  God.     Kiss  the  book. 

[The  book  is  kissed. 

ROPER.     [Examining.]    What  is  your  name? 
JACK.     [In  a  low  voice.]    John  Barthwick,  Junior. 

[The  CLERK  writes  it  down. 
ROPER.     Where  do  you  live? 
JACK.     At  6,  Rockingham  Gate. 

[All  his  answers  are  recorded  by  the  Clerk. 
ROPER.     You  are  the  son  of  the  owner? 
JACK.     [In  a  very  low  voice]    Yes. 
ROPER.     Speak   up,    please.     Do   you   know   the 
prisoners  ? 

JACK.  [Looking  at  the  JONESES,  in  a  low  voice] 
I  've  seen  Mrs.  Jones.  I — [in  a  loud  voice]  don't  know 
the  man. 

JONES.     Well,  I  know  you! 
BALD  CONSTABLE.     Hssh! 

ROPER.     Now,  did  you  come  in  late  on  the  night  of 
Easter  Monday? 
JACK.     Yes. 

ROPER.  And  did  you  by  mistake  leave  your  latch- 
key in  the  door? 


74  The  Silver  Box  ACT  m 

JACK.     Yes. 

MAGISTRATE.  Oh!  You  left  your  latch-key  in  the 
door? 

ROPER.  And  is  that  all  you  can  remember  about 
your  coming  in? 

JACK.     [In  a  loud  voice.]    Yes,  it  is. 

MAGISTRATE.  Now,  you  have  heard  the  male  pris- 
oner's story,  what  do  you  say  to  that? 

JACK.  [Turning  to  the  MAGISTRATE,  speaks  suddenly 
in  a  confident,  straightforward  voice.]  The  fact  of  the 
matter  is,  sir,  that  I  'd  been  out  to  the  theatre  that 
night,  and  had  supper  afterwards,  and  I  came  in 
late. 

MAGISTRATE.  Do  you  remember  this  man  being 
outside  when  you  came  in? 

JACK.     No,  sir.     [He  hesitates]    I  don't  think  I  do. 

MAGISTRATE.  [Somewhat  puzzled.]  Well,  did  he 
help  you  to  open  the  door,  as  he  says?  Did  any  one 
help  you  to  open  the  door? 

JACK.     No,  sir — I  don't  think  so,  sir — I  don't  know. 

MAGISTRATE.  You  don't  know?  But  you  must 
know.  It  is  n't  a  usual  thing  for  you  to  have  the 
door  opened  for  you,  is  it? 

JACK.     [With  a  shamefaced  smile.]    No. 

MAGISTRATE.     Very  well,  then 

JACK.  [Desperately]  The  fact  of  the  matter  is, 
sir,  I  'm  afraid  I  'd  had  too  much  champagne  that 
night. 

MAGISTRATE.  [Smiling.]  Oh !  you  'd  had  too 
much  champagne? 

JONES.     May  I  ask  the  gentleman  a  question? 

MAGISTRATE.  Yes — yes — you  may  ask  him  what 
questions  you  like. 

JONES.     Don't  you  remember  you  said  you  was  a 


ACT  m  The  Silver  Box  75 

Liberal,  same  as  your  father,  and  you  asked  me  wot 
I  was? 

JACK.  [With  his  hand  against  his  brow.]  I  seem  to 
remember 

JONES.  And  I  said  to  you,  "I  'm  a  bloomin'  Con- 
servative,"  I  said;  an'  you  said  to  me,  "You  look 
more  like  one  of  these  'ere  Socialists.  Take  wotever 
you  like,"  you  said. 

JACK.  [With  sudden  resolution.]  No,  I  don't.  I 
don't  remember  anything  of  the  sort. 

JONES.  Well,  I  do,  an'  my  word  's  as  good  as  yours. 
I  've  never  been  had  up  in  a  police  court  before. 
Look  'ere,  don't  you  remember  you  had  a  sky-blue 
bag  in  your  'and [BARTHWICK  jumps. 

ROPER.  I  submit  to  your  worship  that  these  ques- 
tions are  hardly  to  the  point,  the  prisoner  having 
admitted  that  he  himself  does  not  remember  any- 
thing. [There  is  a  smile  on  the  face  of  Justice.]  It  is  a 
case  of  the  blind  leading  the  blind. 

JONES.  [Violently.]  I  've  done  no  more  than  wot 
he  'as.  I  'm  a  poor  man ;  I  've  got  no  money  an'  no 
friends — he  's  a  toff — he  can  do  wot  I  can't. 

MAGISTRATE.  Now,  now!  All  this  won't  help  you 
— you  must  be  quiet.  You  say  you  took  this  box? 
Now,  what  made  you  take  it?  Were  you  pressed 
for  money? 

JONES.     I  'm  always  pressed  for  money. 

MAGISTRATE.    Was    that    the    reason    you    took 

it? 

JONES.     No. 

MAGISTRATE.  [To  SNOW.]  Was  anything  found  on 
him? 

SNOW.  Yes,  your  worship.  There  was  six  pounds 
twelve  shillm's  found  on  him,  and  this  purse. 


76  The  Silver  Box  ACT  m 

[The  red  silk  purse  is  handed  to  the  MAGIS- 
TRATE.    BARTHWICK  rises  in  his  seat,  but 
hastily  sits  down  again.  ] 
MAGISTRATE.     [Staring  at  the  purse.]    Yes,  yes — • 

let  me  see [There  is  a  silence.]    No,  no,  I  've 

nothing  before  me  as  to  the  purse.     How  did  you 
come  by  all  that  money? 

JONES.     [After  a  long  pause,  suddenly]    I  declines 
to  say. 

MAGISTRATE.     But  if  you  had  all  that  money,  what 
made  you  take  this  box? 

JONES.     I  took  it  out  of  spite. 
MAGISTRATE.     [Hissing,  with  protruded  neck]    You 
took  it  out  of  spite?     Well  now,  that's  something! 
But  do  you  imagine  you  can  go  about  the  town  taking 
things  out  of  spite? 

JONES.     If  you  had  my  life,  if  you  'd  been  out  of 

work 

MAGISTRATE.     Yes,  yes;  I  know — because  you're 

out  of  work  you  think  it 's  an  excuse  for  everything. 

JONES.     [Pointing   at   JACK.]    You    ask    'im   wot 

made  'im  take  the 

ROPER.     [Quietly.]    Does  your  Worship  require  this 
witness  in  the  box  any  longer? 

MAGISTRATE.     [Ironically]    I    think    not;    he    is 
hardly  profitable. 

QACK  leaves  the  witness-box,  and  hanging  his 

head,  resumes  his  seat.] 
JONES.    You   ask    'im  wot  made   'im  take  the 

lady's 

[But  the  BALD  CONSTABLE  catches  him  by  the 

sleeve] 

BALD  CONSTABLE.     Sssh! 
MAGISTRATE.     [Emphatically]    Now  listen  to  me. 


ACT  in  The  Silver  Box  77 

I  've  nothing  to  do  with  what  he  may  or  may  not 
have  taken.  "Why  did  you  resist  the  police  in  the 
execution  of  their  duty? 

JONES.  It  war  n't  their  duty  to  take  my  wife,  a 
respectable  woman,  that  'ad  n't  done  nothing. 

MAGISTRATE.  But  I  say  it  was.  What  made  you 
strike  the  officer  a  blow? 

JONES.  Any  man  would  a  struck  'im  a  blow.  I  'd 
strike  'im  again,  I  would. 

MAGISTRATE.  You  are  not  making  your  case  any 
better  by  violence.  How  do  you  suppose  we  could 
get  on  if  everybody  behaved  like  you? 

JONES.  [Leaning  forward,  earnestly.]  Well,  wot 
about  'er;  who  's  to  make  up  to  'er  for  this?  Who  's 
to  give  'er  back  'er  good  name? 

MRS.  JONES.  Your  Worship,  it 's  the  children 
that 's  preying  on  his  mind,  because  of  course  I  've 
lost  my  work.  And  I  've  had  to  find  another  room 
owing  to  the  scandal. 

MAGISTRATE.  Yes,  yes,  I  know — but  if  he  had  n't 
acted  like  this  nobody  would  have  suffered. 

JONES.  [Glaring  round  at  JACK.]  I  've  done  no 
worse  than  wot  'e  'as.  Wot  I  want  to  know  is  wot 's 
goin'  to  be  done  to  'im. 

[The  BALD  CONSTABLE  again  says  "Hssh!" 

ROPER.  Mr.  Barthwick  wishes  it  known,  your 
Worship,  tnat  considering  the  poverty  of  the  prison- 
ers he  does  not  press  the  charge  as  to  the  box.  Per- 
haps your  Worship  would  deal  with  the  case  as  one  of 
disorder. 

JONES.  I  don't  want  it  smothered  up,  I  want  it  all 
dealt  with  fair — I  want  my  rights 

MAGISTRATE.  [Rapping  his  desk.]  Now  you  have 
said  all  you  have  to  say,  and  you  will  be  quiet. 


78  The  Silver  Box  ACT  m 

[There  is  a  silence;  the  MAGISTRATE  bends 

over  and  parleys  with  his  CLERK.] 
Yes,  I  think  I  may  discharge  the  woman.  [In  a 
kindly  voice  he  addresses  MRS.  JONES,  who  stands  un- 
moving  with  her  hands  crossed  on  the  rail.}  It  is  very 
unfortunate  for  you  that  this  man  has  behaved  as  he 
has.  It  is  not  the  consequences  to  him  but  the 
consequences  to  you.  You  have  been  brought  here 
twice,  you  have  lost  your  work — [He  glares  at  JONES] 
and  this  is  what  always  happens.  Now  you  may  go 
away,  and  I  am  very  sorry  it  was  necessary  to  bring 
you  here  at  all. 

MRS.  JONES.  [Softly.]  Thank  you  very  much,  your 
Worship. 

[She  leaves  the  dock,  and  looking  back  at  JONES, 

twists  her  fingers  and  is  still.] 

MAGISTRATE.  Yes,  yes,  but  I  can't  pass  it  over. 
Go  away,  there  's  a  good  woman. 

[MRS.  JONES  stands  back.  The  MAGISTRATE 
leans  his  head  on  his  hand:  then  raising  it 
he  speaks  to  JONES.] 

Now,  listen  to  me.  Do  you  wish  the  case  to  be 
settled  here,  or  do  you  wish  it  to  go  before  a 
jury? 

JONES.     [Muttering.]    I  don't  want  no  jury. 
MAGISTRATE.     Very  well  then,  I  will  deal  with  it 
here.     [After  a  pause.]    You  have  pleaded  guilty  to 
stealing  this  box — 

JONES.     Not  to  stealin' — 
BALD  CONSTABLE.     Hssshh! 

MAGISTRATE.     And  to  assaulting  the  police 

JONES.     Any  man  as  was  a  man 

MAGISTRATE.  Your  conduct  here  has  been  most 
improper.  You  give  the  excuse  that  you  were 


ACT  in  The  Silver  Box  79 

drunk  when  you  stole  the  box.  I  tell  you  that  is  no 
excuse.  If  you  choose  to  get  drunk  and  break  the 
law  afterwards  you  must  take  the  consequences. 
And  let  me  tell  you  that  men  like  you,  who  get 
drunk  and  give  way  to  your  spite  or  whatever 
it  is  that 's  in  you,  are — are — a  nuisance  to  the 
community. 

JACK.     [Leaning  from  his  seat.]    Dad!  that 's  what 
you  said  to  me  ! 
BARTHWICK.     Tsst! 

[There  is  a  silence,  while  the  MAGISTRATE 
consults  his  CLERK;  JONES  leans  forward 
waiting.] 

MAGISTRATE.  This  is  your  first  offence,  and  I 
am  going  to  give  you  a  light  sentence.  [Speaking 
sharply,  but  without  expression.]  One  month  with 
hard  labour. 

[He  bends,  and  parleys  with  his  CLERK.  The 
BALD  CONSTABLE  and  another  help  JONES 
from  the  dock] 

JONES.  [Stopping  and  twisting  round]  Call  this 
justice?  What  about  'im?  'E  got  drunk!  'E  took 
the  purse — 'e  took  the  purse  but  [in  a  muffled  shout] 
it 's  'is  money  got  'im  off — Justice  ! 

[The  prisoner's  door  is  shut  on  JONES,  and 
from    the   seedy-looking   men   and   women 
comes  a  hoarse  and  whispering  groan] 
MAGISTRATE.      We  will  now  adjourn   for  lunch! 
[He  rises  from  his  seat] 

[The  Court  is  in  a  stir.  ROPER  gets  up 
and  speaks  to  the  reporter.  JACK, 
throwing  up  his  head,  walks  with  a 
swagger  to  the  corridor;  BARTHWICK 
follows.] 


8o  The  Silver  Box  ACT  m 

MRS.  JONES.     [Turning  to  him  with  a  humble  gesture.] 
Oh!  sir! 

[BARTHWICK  hesitates,  then  yielding  to  his 
nerves,  he  makes  a  shame-faced  gesture  of 
refusal,  and  hurries  out  of  court.  MRS. 
JONES  stands  looking  after  him.] 

The  curtain  falls. 


JOY 

A  PLAY  ON  THE    LETTER  «I" 

IN  THREE  ACTS 


PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

COLONEL  HOPE,  R.A.,  retired 

MRS.  HOPE,  his  wife 

Miss  BEECH,  their  old  governess 

LETTY,  their  daughter 

ERNEST  BLUNT,  her  husband 

MRS.  GWYN,  their  niece 

JOY,  her  daughter 

DICK  MERTON,  their  young  friend 

HON.  MAURICE  LEVER,  their  guest 

ROSE,  their  parlourmaid 

TIME:  The  present.  The  action  passes  throughout  mid- 
summer day  on  the  lawn  of  Colonel  Hope's  house,  near  the 
Thames  above  Oxford. 


ACT  I 

The  time  is  morning,  and  the  scene  a  level  lawn,  be- 
yond which  the  river  is  running  amongst  fields.  A 
huge  old  beech  tree  overshadows  everything,  in  the 
darkness  of  whose  hollow  many  things  are  hidden. 
A  rustic  seat  encircles  it.  A  low  wall  clothed  in 
creepers,  with  two  openings,  divides  this  lawn  from 
the  -flowery  approaches  to  the  house.  Close  to  the 
wall  there  is  a  swing.  The  sky  is  clear  and  sunny. 
COLONEL  HOPE  is  seated  in  a  garden-chair,  reading 
a  newspaper  through  pince-nez.  He  is  fifty-five 
and  bald,  with  drooping  grey  moustaches  and  a 
weather-darkened  face.  He  wears  a  flannel  suit, 
and  a  hat  from  Panama;  a  tennis  racquet  leans 
against  his  chair.  MRS.  HOPE  comes  quickly 
through  the  opening  of  the  wall,  with  roses  in  her 
hands.  She  is  going  grey;  she  wears  tan  gauntlets, 
and  no  hat.  Her  manner  is  decided,  her  voice 
emphatic,  as  though  aware  that  there  is  no  nonsense 
in  its  owner's  composition.  Screened  from  sight, 
Miss  BEECH  is  seated  behind  the  hollow  tree;  and 
JOY  is  perched  on  a  lower  branch  hidden  by  foliage. 

MRS.  HOPE.  I  told  Molly  in  my  letter  that  she  'd 
have  to  walk  up,  Tom. 

COLONEL.  Walk  up  in  this  heat?  My  dear,  why 
didn't  you  order  Benson's  fly? 

MRS.  HOPE.  Expense  for  nothing!  Bob  can  bring 
85 


86  Joy 


ACT  I 


up  her  things  in  the  barrow.  I  Ve  told  Joy  I  won't 
have  her  going  down  to  meet  the  train.  She 's  so 
excited  about  her  mother's  coming  there 's  no  doing 
anything  with  her. 

COLONEL.     No  wonder,  after  two  months. 

MRS.  HOPE.  Well,  she's  going  home  to-morrow; 
she  must  just  keep  herself  fresh  for  the  dancing  to- 
night. I  'm  not  going  to  get  people  in  to  dance,  and 
have  Joy  worn  out  before  they  begin. 

COLONEL.  [Dropping  his  paper.]  I  don't  like 
Molly's  walking  up. 

MRS.  HOPE.  A  great  strong  woman  like  Molly 
Gwyn!  It  isn't  half  a  mile. 

COLONEL.  I  don't  like  it,  Nell;  it 's  not  hospit- 
able. 

MRS.  HOPE.  Rubbish !  If  you  want  to  throw  away 
money,  you  must  just  find  some  better  investment 
than  those  wretched  3  per  cents,  of  yours.  The 
greenflies  are  in  my  roses  already !  Did  you  ever  see 
anything  so  disgusting?  [They  bend  over  the  roses 
they  have  grown,  and  lose  all  sense  of  everything.} 
Where's  the  syringe?  I  saw  you  mooning  about 
with  it  last  night,  Tom. 

COLONEL.  [Uneasily.]  Mooning!  [He  retires  behind 
his  paper.  MRS.  HOPE  enters  the  hollow  of  the  tree.] 
There 's  an  account  of  that  West  Australian  swindle. 
Set  of  ruffians!  Listen  to  this,  Nell!  "It  is  under- 
stood that  amongst  the  shareholders  are  large 
numbers  of  women,  clergymen,  and  Army  officers." 
How  people  can  be  such  fools'. 

[Becoming  aware  that  his  absorption  is  unob- 
served, he  drops  his  glasses,  and  reverses  his 
chair  towards  the  tree.] 

MRS.  HOPE.     [Reappearing  with  a  garden  syringe.]    I 


ACT  I 


Joy  87 


simply  won't  have  Dick  keep  his  fishing  things  in  the 
tree ;  there 's  a  whole  potful  of  disgusting  worms.  / 
can't  touch  them.  You  must  go  and  take  'em  out, 
Tom. 

[In  his  turn  the  COLONEL  enters  the  hollow  of  the  tree. 
MRS.   HOPE.     [Personally.]    What  on  earth 's  the 
pleasure  of  it?     I  can't  see!     He  never  catches  any- 
thing worth  eating. 

[The  COLONEL  reappears  with  a  paint  pot  full  of 

worms;  he  holds  them  out  abstractedly.] 
MRS.  HOPE.     [Jumping.]    Don't  put  them  near  me ! 
Miss  BEECH.    [From  behind  the  tree.]   Don't  hurt  the 
poor  creatures. 

COLONEL.  [Turning.]  Hallo,  Peachey?  What  are 
you  doing  round  there? 

[He  puts  the  worms  down  on  the  seat. 
MRS.  HOPE.     Tom,  take  the  worms  off  that  seat  at 
once! 

COLONEL.  [Somewhat  flurried.]  Good  gad!  7  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  the  beastly  worms! 

MRS.  HOPE.  It 's  not  my  business  to  look  after 
Dick's  worms.  Don't  put  them  on  the  ground.  I 
won't  have  them  anywhere  where  they  can  crawl 
about.  [She  flicks  some  greenflies  off  her  roses. 

COLONEL.     [Looking  into  the  pot  as  though  the  worms 
could  tell  him  where  to  put  them.]    Dash! 
Miss  BEECH.     Give  them  to  me. 
MRS.    HOPE.       [Relieved.]       Yes,    give    them    to 
Peachey. 

[There  comes  from  round  the  tree  Miss  BEECH, 
old-fashioned,  barrel-shaped,   balloony  in  the 
skirts.     She   takes    the   paint   pot,    and   sits 
beside  it  on  the  rustic  seat.] 
Miss  BEECH.     Poor  creatures! 


88  Joy 


ACT! 


MRS.  HOPE.  Well,  it's  beyond  me  how  you  can 
make  pets  of  worms — wriggling,  crawling,  horrible 
things ! 

[ROSE,  who  is  young  and  comely,  in  a  pale  print 
frock,    comes    from    the    house    and    places 
letters  before  her  on  a  silver  salver.] 
[Taking  the  letters.]    What  about  Miss  Joy's  frock, 
Rose? 

ROSE.  Please,  'm,  I  can't  get  on  with  the  back 
without  Miss  Joy. 

MRS.  HOPE.  Well,  then  you  must  just  find  her.  / 
don't  know  where  she  is. 

ROSE.    [In  a  slow,  sidelong  manner.]  If  you  please, 

Mum,  I  think  Miss  Joy 's  up  in  the 

[She  stops,  seeing  Miss  BEECH  signing  to  her  with 

both  hands.] 

MRS.  HOPE.     [Sharply.]    What  is  it,  Peachey? 
Miss  BEECH.     [Selecting  a  finger.]     Pricked  meself ! 
MRS.  HOPE.     Let's  look! 

[She  bends  to  look,  but  Miss  BEECH  places  the 

finger  in  her  mouth.] 
ROSE.     [Glancing  askance  at  the  COLONEL.]    If  you 

please,  Mum,  it's below  the  waist;  I  think  I  can 

manage  with  the  dummy. 

MRS.  HOPE.     Well,  you  can  try.     [Opening  her  letter 
as    ROSE    retires.]     Here 's   Molly   about    her  train. 
Miss  BEECH.     Is  there  a  letter  for  me? 
MRS.  HOPE.     No,  Peachey. 
Miss  BEECH.     There  never  is. 
COLONEL.     What 's  that?     You  got  four  by  the  first 
post. 

Miss  BEECH.     Exceptions! 

COLONEL.  [Looking  over  his  glasses.]  Why!  You 
know,  you  get  'em  every  day! 


ACT  I 


Joy  89 


MRS.  HOPE.  Molly  says  she'll  be  down  by  the 
eleven  thirty.  [In  an  injured  voice.']  She  '11  be  here  in 
half  an  hour !  [Reading  with  disapproval  from  the  letter.} 
"MAURICE  LEVER  is  coming  down  by  the  same  train 
to  see  Mr.  Henty  about  the  Tocopala  Gold  Mine. 
Could  you  give  him  a  bed  for  the  night?  " 

[Silence,  slight  but  ominous. 

COLONEL.  [Calling  in  to  his  aid  his  sacred  hospitality} 
Of  course  we  must  give  him  a  bed ! 

MRS.  HOPE.  Just  like  a  man !  What  room  I  should 
like  to  know ! 

COLONEL.     Pink. 

MRS.  HOPE.     As  if  Molly  wouldn't  have  the  pink! 

COLONEL.  [Ruefully.}  I  thought  she'd  have  the 
blue! 

MRS.  HOPE.  You  know  perfectly  well  it 's  full  of 
earwigs,  Tom.  I  killed  ten  there  yesterday  morning. 

Miss  BEECH.     Poor  creatures! 

MRS.  HOPE.  I  don't  know  that  I  approve  of  this  Mr. 
Lever's  dancing  attendance.  Molly 's  only  thirty-six. 

COLONEL.  [In  a  high  voice}  You  can't  refuse  him  a 
bed ;  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing. 

MRS.  HOPE.  [Reading  from  the  letter}  "This  gold 
mine  seems  to  be  a  splendid  chance.  [She  glances  at 
the  COLONEL.]  I  've  put  all  my  spare  cash  into  it. 
They  're  issuing  some  Preference  shares  now;  if  Uncle 
Tom  wants  an  investment" — [She  pauses,  then  in  a 
changed,  decided  voice } — Well,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to 
screw  him  in  somehow. 

COLONEL.  What's  that  about  gold  mines?  Gam- 
bling nonsense!  Molly  ought  to  know  my  views. 

MRS.  HOPE.  [Folding  the  letter  away  out  of  her  con- 
sciousness} Oh !  your  views !  This  may  be  a  specially 
good  chance. 


90  Joy 


ACT  I 


Miss  BEECH.     Ahem!     Special  case! 

MRS.  HOPE.  [Paying  no  attention.]  I 'm  sick  of  these 
3  per  cent,  dividends.  When  you  've  only  got  so 
little  money,  to  put  it  all  into  that  India  Stock,  when 
it  might  be  earning  6  per  cent,  at  least,  quite  safely! 
There  are  ever  so  many  things  I  want. 

COLONEL.     There  you  go! 

MRS.  HOPE.  As  to  Molly,  I  think  it 's  high  time 
her  husband  came  home  to  look  after  her,  instead  of 
sticking  out  there  in  that  hot  place.  In  fact 

[Miss  BEECH  looks  up  at  the  tree  and  exhibits 

cerebral  excitement] 

I  don't  know  what  Geoff's  about;  why  doesn't  he 
find  something  in  England,  where  they  could  live 
together. 

COLONEL.    Don't  say  anything  against  Molly,  Nell! 

MRS.  HOPE.  Well,  I  don't  believe  in  husband  and 
wife  being  separated.  That 's  not  my  idea  of  married 
life. 

[The  COLONEL  whistles  quizzically. 
Ah,  yes,  she 's  your  niece,  not  mine!     Molly 's  very — • 

Miss  BEECH.     Ouch!     [She  sucks  her -finger.] 

MRS.  HOPE.  Well,  if  I  couldn't  sew  at  your  age, 
Peachey,  without  pricking  my  fingers!  Tom,  if  I 
have  Mr.  Lever  here,  you  '11  just  attend  to  what  I 
say  and  look  into  that  mine! 

COLONEL.  Look  into  your  grandmother!  I  haven't 
made  a  study  of  geology  for  nothing.  For  every 
ounce  you  take  out  of  a  gold  mine,  you  put  an  ounce 
and  a  half  in.  Any  fool  knows  that,  eh,  Peachey? 

Miss  BEECH.  I  hate  your  horrid  mines,  with  all  the 
poor  creatures  underground. 

MRS.  HOPE.  Nonsense,  Peachey!  As  if  they  'd  go 
there  if  they  did  n't  want  to! 


ACT  I 


Joy  91 


COLONEL.  Why  don't  you  read  your  paper,  then 
you  'd  see  what  a  lot  of  wild-cat  things  there  are 
about. 

MRS.  HOPE.  [Abstractedly.]  I  can't  put  Ernest  and 
Letty  in  the  blue  room,  there  's  only  the  single  bed. 
Suppose  I  put  Mr.  Lever  there,  and  say  nothing 
about  the  earwigs.  I  daresay  he  '11  never  notice. 

COLONEL.     Treat  a  guest  like  that ! 

MRS.  HOPE.  Then  where  am  I  to  put  him  for 
goodness  sake? 

COLONEL.  Put  him  in  my  dressing-room,  I  '11  turn 
out. 

MRS.  HOPE.  Rubbish,  Tom,  I  won't  have  you 
turned  out,  that 's  flat.  He  can  have  Joy's  room,  and 
she  can  sleep  with  the  earwigs. 

JOY.  [From  her  hiding-place  upon  a  lower  branch  of 
the  hollow  tree.]  I  won't. 

[MRS.  HOPE  and  the  COLONEL  jump. 

COLONEL.     God  bless  my  soul! 

MRS.  HOPE.  You  wretched  girl!  I  told  you  never 
to  climb  that  tree  again.  Did  you  know,  Peachey? 

[Miss  BEECH  smiles. 

She 's  always  up  there,  spoiling  all  her  frocks.     Come 
down  now,  Joy ;  there  's  a  good  child ! 

JOY.  I  don't  want  to  sleep  with  earwigs,  Aunt 
Nell. 

Miss  BEECH.     I  'II  sleep  with  the  poor  creatures. 

MRS.  HOPE.  {After  a  pause.]  Well,  it  would  be  a 
mercy  if  you  would  for  once,  Peachey. 

COLONEL.     Nonsense,  I  won't  have  Peachey • 

MRS.  HOPE.     Well,  who  is  to  sleep  there  then? 

JOY.  [Coaxingly.]  Let  me  sleep  with  Mother,  Aunt 
Nell,  do! 

MRS.  HOPE.     Litter  her  up  with  a  great  girl  like 


92  Joy 


ACT  I 


you,  as  if  we  'd  only  one  spare  room !  Tom,  see  that 
she  comes  down — I  can't  stay  here,  I  must  manage 
something.  [She  goes  away  towards  the  house. 

COLONEL.  [Moving  to  the  tree,  and  looking  up.]  You 
heard  what  your  aunt  said? 

JOY.     [Softly.]    Oh,  Uncle  Tom! 

COLONEL.     I  shall  have  to  come  up  after  you. 

JOY.     Oh,  do,  and  Peachey  too! 

COLONEL.  [Trying  to  restrain  a  smile.]  Peachey, 
you  talk  to  her.  [Without  waiting  for  Miss  BEECH, 
however,  he  proceeds.]  What  '11  your  aunt  say  to  me 
if  I  don't  get  you  down? 

Miss  BEECH.     Poor  creature! 

JOY.     I  don't  want  to  be  worried  about  my  frock. 

COLONEL.  [Scratching  his  bald  head.]  Well,  7  shall 
catch  it. 

JOY.  Oh,  Uncle  Tom,  your  head  is  so  beautiful 
from  here !  [Leaning  over,  she  fans  it  with  a  leafy  twig. 

Miss  BEECH.     Disrespectful  little  toad! 

COLONEL.  [Quickly  putting  on  his  hat.]  You  '11  fall 
out,  and  a  pretty  mess  that  '11  make  on — [he  looks  un- 
easily at  the  ground] — my  lawn! 

[A  voice  is  heard  calling  "Colonel!  Colonel!" 

JOY.     There  's  Dick  calling  you,  Uncle  Tom. 

[She  disappears. 

DICK.  [Appearing  in  the  opening  of  (  the  wall.] 
Ernie's  waiting  to  play  you  that  single,  Colonel! 

[He  disappears. 

JOY.  Quick,  Uncle  Tom!  Oh!  do  go,  before  he 
finds  I  'm  up  here. 

Miss  BEECH.     Secret  little  creature! 

[The  COLONEL  picks  up  his  racquet,  shakes  his 
fist,  and  goes  away.] 

JOY.     [Calmly.]     I  'm  coming  down  now,  Peachey. 


ACT  I 


Joy  93 


[Climbing  down.]    Look  out !     I  'm  dropping  on  your 
head. 

Miss  BEECH.  [Unmoved.]     Don't  hurt  yourself! 

[Joy  drops  on  the  rustic  seat  and  rubs  her  shin. 
Told  you  so!  [She  hunts  in  a  little  bag  for  plaster.] 
Let 's  see! 

JOY.     [Seeing  the  worms.]    Ugh! 

Miss  BEECH.     What's  the  matter  with  the  poor 
creatures? 

JOY.     They  're  so  wriggly! 

[She  backs  away  and  sits  down  in  the  swing. 
She  is  just  seventeen,  light  and  slim,  brown- 
haired,  fresh-coloured,  and  grey-eyed;  her 
white  frock  reaches  to  her  ankles,  she  wears 
a  sunbonnet.] 
Peachey,  how  long  were  you  Mother's  governess. 

Miss  BEECH.     Five  years. 

JOY.     Was  she  as  bad  to  teach  as  me? 

Miss  BEECH.     Worse!  LJ°Y  claps  her  hands. 

She  was  the  worst  girl  I  ever  taught. 

JOY.     Then  you  were  n't  fond  of  her? 

Miss  BEECH.     Oh!  yes,  I  was. 

JOY.     Fonder  than  of  me? 

Miss  BEECH.     Don't  you  ask  such  a  lot  of  ques- 
tions ! 

JOY.     Peachey,  duckie,  what  was  Mother's  worst 
fault? 

Miss  BEECH.     Doing  what  she  knew  she  oughtn't. 

JOY.     Was  she  ever  sorry? 

Miss  BEECH.     Yes,  but  she  always  went  on  doin'  it. 

JOY.     7  think  being  sorry 's  stupid ! 

Miss  BEECH.     Oh,  do  you? 

JOY.     It  isn't  any  good.     Was  Mother  revengeful, 
like  me? 


94  Joy 


ACT! 


Miss  BEECH.     Ah!    Was  n't  she? 

JOY.     And  jealous? 

Miss  BEECH.     The  most  jealous  girl  I  ever  saw. 

JOY.     [Nodding.]    I  like  to  be  like  her. 

Miss  BEECH.  [Regarding  her  intently.]  Yes !  you  've 
got  all  your  troubles  before  you. 

JOY.  Mother  was  married  at  eighteen,  was  n't  she, 
Peachey?  Was  she — was  she  much  in  love  with 
Father  then? 

Miss  BEECH.  [With  a  sniff.]  About  as  much  as 
usual.  [She  takes  the  paint  pot,  and  walking  round 
begins  to  release  the  worms.] 

JOY.  [Indifferently.]  They  don't  get  on  now,  you 
know. 

Miss  BEECH.  What  d  'you  mean  by  that,  dis- 
respectful little  creature? 

JOY.  [In  a  hard  voice.]  They  haven't  ever  since 
7  've  known  them. 

Miss  BEECH.  [Looks  at  her,  and  turns  away  again.] 
Don't  talk  about  such  things. 

JOY.  I  suppose  you  don't  know  Mr.  Lever? 
[Bitterly.]  He's  such  a  cool  beast.  He  never  loses 
his  temper. 

Miss  BEECH.     Is  that  why  you  don't  like  him? 

JOY.     [Frowning.]     No — yes — I  don't  know. 

Miss  BEECH.     Oh!  perhaps  you  do  like  him? 

JOY.     I  don't;   I  hate  him. 

Miss  BEECH.  [Standing  still]  Fie!  Naughty 
temper! 

JOY.  Well,  so  would  you!  He  takes  up  all 
Mother's  time. 

Miss  BEECH.     [In  a  peculiar  voice.]     Oh!  does  he? 

JOY.  When  he  comes  7  might  just  as  well  go  to 
bed.  [Passionately.]  And  now  he  's  chosen  to-day  to 


ACT  1 


Joy  95 


come  down  here,  when  I  haven't  seen  her  for  two 
months !  Why  could  n't  he  come  when  Mother  and 
I  'd  gone  home.  It's  simply  brutal ! 

Miss  BEECH.     But  your  mother  likes  him? 

JOY.     [Sullenly.]     I  don't  want  her  to  like  him. 

Miss  BEECH.     [With  a  long  look  at  JOY.]    I  see! 

JOY.     What  are  you  doing,  Peachey? 

Miss  BEECH.  [Releasing  a  worm.]  Letting  the  poor 
creatures  go. 

JOY.     If  I  tell  Dick  he'll  never  forgive  you. 

Miss  BEECH.  [Sidling  behind  the  swing  and  plucking 
off  JOY'S  sunbonnet.  With  devilry.]  Ah-h-h!  You've 
done  your  hair  up ;  so  that's  why  you  would  n't  come 
down! 

JOY.  [Springing  up,  and  pouting.]  I  did  n't  want 
any  one  to  see  before  Mother.  You  are  a  pig, 
Peachey  ! 

Miss  BEECH.     I  thought  there  was  something! 

JOY.     [Twisting  round.]    How  does  it  look? 

Miss  BEECH.     I  've  seen  better. 

JOY.  You  tell  any  one  before  Mother  comes,  and 
see  what  I  do! 

Miss  BEECH.  Well,  don't  you  tell  about  my  worms, 
then! 

JOY.  Give  me  my  hat !  [Backing  hastily  towards  the 
tree,  and  putting  her  finger  to  her  lips.]  Look  out !  Dick ! 

Miss  BEECH.     Oh!  dear! 

[She  sits  down  on  the  swing,  concealing  the  paint 
pot  with  her  feet  and  skirts.] 

JOY.  [On  the  rustic  seat,  and  in  a  violent  whisper.]  I 
hope  the  worms  will  crawl  up  your  legs ! 

[DicK,  in  flannels  and  a  hard  straw  hat  comes 
in.  He  is  a  quiet  and  cheerful  boy  of  twenty. 
His  eyes  are  always  fixed  on  JOY.] 


96  Joy 


ACT  I 


DICK.     [Grimacing.]    The  Colonel 's  getting  licked. 
Hallo!  Peachey,  in  the  swing? 
JOY.     [Chuckling.]    Swing  her,  Dick! 
Miss    BEECH.     [Quivering    with    emotion.]    Little 
creature ! 

JOY.     Swing  her!  [DICK  takes  the  ropes. 

Miss  BEECH.  [Quietly.]  It  makes  me  sick,  young  man. 
DICK.     [Patting  her  gently  on  the  back.]    All  right, 
Peachey. 

Miss  BEECH.  [Maliciously.]  Could  you  get  me  my 
sewing  from  the  seat?  Just  behind  Joy. 

JOY.  [Leaning  her  head  against  the  tree.]  If  you  do, 
I  won't  dance  with  you  to-night. 

[DICK  stands  paralysed.  Miss  BEECH  gets  off 
the  swing,  picks  up  the  paint  pot,  and  stands 
concealing  it  behind  her.] 

JOY.    Look  what  she 's  got  behind  her,  sly  old  thing! 
Miss  BEECH.     Oh!  dear! 
JOY.     Dance  with  her,  Dick! 
Miss  BEECH.     If  he  dare! 

JOY.  Dance  with  her,  or  I  won't  dance  with  you 
to-night.  [She  whistles  a  waltz. 

DICK.  [Desperately.]  Come  on  then,  Peachey.  We 
must. 

JOY.     Dance,  dance! 

[DICK  seizes  Miss  BEECH  by  the  waist.    She 

drops  the  paint  pot.     They  revolve.] 
[Convulsed.]    Oh,  Peachey,  oh! 

[Miss  BEECH  is  dropped  upon  the  rustic  seat. 
DICK  seizes  JOY'S  hands  and  drags  her  up.] 
No,  no!     I  won't! 

Miss  BEECH.  [Panting.]  Dance,  dance  with  the 
poor  young  man!  [She  moves  her  hands.]  La  la — la 
la  la — la  la  la!  [DICK  and  JOY  dance. 


ACT  I 


Joy  97 


DICK.  By  Jove,  Joy!  You've  done  your  hair  up. 
I  say,  how  jolly!  You  do  look 

JOY.  {Throwing  her  hands  up  to  her  hair.}  I  did  n't 
mean  you  to  see ! 

DICK.  [In  a  hurt  voice.]  Oh!  didn't  you?  I'm 
awfully  sorry! 

JOY.     [Flashing  round.]     Oh,  you  old  Peachey! 
[She  looks  at  the  ground,  and  then  again  at  DICK. 

Miss  BEECH.     [Sidling  round  the  tree.]    Oh!  dear! 

JOY.  [Whispering.]  She's  been  letting  out  your 
worms.  [Miss  BEECH  disappears  from  view.] 

Look! 

DICK.  [Quickly.]  Hang  the  worms !  Joy,  promise 
me  the  second  and  fourth  and  sixth  and  eighth  and 
tenth  and  supper,  to-night.  Promise!  Do! 

[Joy  shakes  her  head.] 
It's  not  much  to  ask. 

JOY.     I  won't  promise  anything. 

DICK.     Why  not? 

JOY.  Because  Mother's  coming.  I  won't  make 
any  arrangements. 

DICK.     [Tragically.]    It 's  our  last  night. 

JOY.  [Scornfully.]  You  don't  understand!  [Dancing 
and  clasping  her  hands]  Mother's  coming,  Mother's 


coming 


DICK.     [Violently.]    I  wish Promise,  Joy! 

JOY.  [Looking  over  her  shoulder]  Sly  old  thing!  If 
you  '11  pay  Peachey  out,  I  '11  promise  you  supper! 

Miss  BEECH.     [From  behind  the  tree.]    I  hear  you. 

JOY.  [Whispering]  Pay  her  out,  pay  her  out! 
She  's  let  out  all  your  worms ! 

DICK.  [Looking  moodily  at  the  paint  pot.]  I  say,  is  it 
true  that  Maurice  Lever  's  coming  with  your  mother? 
I  've  met  him  playing  cricket,  he  's  rather  a  good  sort. 


98  Joy 


ACT  i 


JOY.     [Flashing  out.]     I  hate  him. 
DICK.     [Troubled.]    Do  you?     Why?     I  thought — 
I  did  n't  know — if  I  'd  known  of  course,  I  'd  have — 

[He  is  going  to  say  "hated  him  too!"     But  the 
voices  of  ERNEST  BLUNT  and  the  COLONEL 
are  heard  approaching,  in  dispute.] 
JOY.     Oh!  Dick,  hide  me,  I  don't  want  my  hair 
seen  till  Mother  comes. 

[She  springs  into  the  hollow  tree.  The  COLONEL 
and  ERNEST  appear  in  the  opening  of  the 
wall.] 

ERNEST.     The  ball  was  out,  Colonel. 
COLONEL.     Nothing  of  the  sort. 
ERNEST.     A  good  foot  out. 
COLONEL.     It  was  not,  sir.     I  saw  the  chalk  fly. 

[ERNEST  is  twenty-eight,  with  a  little  moustache, 
and  the  positive  cool  voice  of  a  young  man 
who  knows  that  he  knows  everything.  He  is 
perfectly  calm.] 

ERNEST.     I  was  nearer  to  it  than  you. 
COLONEL.     [In  a  high,  hot  voice.]   I  don't  care  where 
you  were,  I  hate  a  fellow  who  can't  keep  cool. 

Miss  BEECH.     [From  behind  the  hollow  tree.]     Fie! 
Fie! 

ERNEST.     We  're  two  to  one,  Letty  says  the  ball  was 
out. 

COLONEL.     Letty 's  your  wife,  she  'd  say  anything. 
ERNEST.     Well,  look  here,  Colonel,  I  '11  show  you 
the  very  place  it  pitched. 

COLONEL.     Gammon!     You've  lost  your  temper, 
you  don't  know  what  you  're  talking  about. 

ERNEST.    [Coolly.]    I  suppose  you  '11  admit  the  rule 
that  one  umpires  one's  own  court. 

COLONEL.     [Hotly.]    Certainly  not,  in  this  case  I 


ACT  I 


Joy  99 


Miss  BEECH.  [From  behind  the  hollow  tree.]  Special 
case! 

ERNEST.  [Moving  chin  in  collar — very  coolly.]  Well, 
of  course  if  you  won't  play  the  game! 

COLONEL.  [In  a  towering  passion.]  If  you  lose  your 
temper  like  this,  I  '11  never  play  with  you  again. 

[To  LETTY,  a  pretty  soul  in  a  linen  suit,  ap- 
proaching through  the  wall.] 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  ball  was  out,  Letty? 

LETTY.     Of  course  it  was,  Father. 

COLONEL.  You  say  that  because  he 's  your  husband. 
[He  sits  on  the  rustic  seat.]  If  your  mother 'd  been 
there  she'd  have  backed  me  up! 

LETTY.    Mother  wants  Joy,  Dick,  about  her  frock. 

DICK.     I — I  don't  know  where  she  is. 

Miss  BEECH.   [From  behind  the  hollow  tree.]     Ahem! 

LETTY.     What 's  the  matter,  Peachey? 

Miss  BEECH.     Swallowed  a  fly.     Poor  creature! 

ERNEST.  [Returning  to  his  point.]  Why  I  know  the 
ball  was  out,  Colonel,  was  because  it  pitched  in  a  line 
with  that  arbutus  tree 

COLONEL.  [Rising.]  Arbutus  tree!  [To  his  daugh- 
ter.] Where  's  your  mother? 

LETTY.     In  the  blue  room,  Father. 

ERNEST.  The  ball  was  a  good  foot  out;  at  the 
height  it  was  coming  when  it  passed  me 

COLONEL.  [Staring  at  him.]  You  're  a — you  're  a — • 
a  theorist !  From  where  you  were  you  could  n't  see  the 
ball  at  all.  [To  LETTY.]  Where  's  your  mother? 

LETTY.     [Emphatically.]     In  the  blue  room,  Father! 
[The  COLONEL  glares  confusedly,  and  goes  away 
towards  the  blue  room.] 

ERNEST.  [In  the  swing,  and  with  a  smile.]  Your  old 
Dad  '11  never  be  a  sportsman ! 


IOO 


Joy 


ACT  I 


LETTY.  [Indignantly.]  I  wish  you  wouldn't  call 
Father  old,  Ernie!  What  time's  Molly  coming, 
Peachey  ? 

[ROSE  has  come  from  the  house,   and  stands 

waiting  for  a  chance  to  speak.} 

ERNEST.    [Breaking  in.]    Your  old  Dad 's  only  got 
one  fault:  he  can't  take  an  impersonal  view  of  things. 
Miss  BEECH.     Can  you  find  me  any  one  who  can? 
ERNEST.     [With  a  smile.]    Well,  Peachey! 
Miss  BEECH.  [Ironically.]  Oh!of  course,  there's  you! 

ERNEST.     I  don't  know  about  that!     But 

ROSE.  [To  LETTY.]  Please,  Miss,  the  Missis  says 
will  you  and  Mr.  Ernest  please  to  move  your  things 
into  Miss  Peachey's  room. 

ERNEST.  [Vexed.]  Deuce  of  a  nuisance  havin'  to 
turn  out  for  this  fellow  Lever.  What  did  Molly 
want  to  bring  him  for? 

Miss  BEECH.  Course  you  've  no  personal  feeling  in 
the  matter! 

ROSE.  [Speaking  to  Miss  BEECH.]  The  Missis  says 
you  're  to  please  move  your  things  into  the  blue  room, 
please  Miss. 

LETTY.  Aha,  Peachey!  That  settles  you !  Come 
on,  Ernie! 

[She  goes  towards  the  house.  ERNEST,  rising 
from  the  swing,  turns  to  Miss  BEECH,  who 
follows.] 

ERNEST.  [Smiling,  faintly  superior.}  Personal,  not 
i  bit!  I  only  think  while  Molly  's  out  at  grass,  she 

oughtn't  to 

Miss  BEECH.     [Sharply.]     Oh]  do  you? 

[She  hustles  ERNEST  out  through  the  wall,  but 
his  voice  is  heard  faintly  from  the  distance: 
"I  think  it's  jolly  thin."} 


ACT  I 


Joy  i 01 


ROSE.  [To  DICK.]  The  Missis  says  you  're  to  take 
all  your  worms  and  things,  Sir,  and  put  them  where 
they  won't  be  seen. 

DICK.     [Shortly.]     Haven't  got  any! 
ROSE.    The  Missis  says  she  '11  be  very  angry  if  you 
don't  put  your  worms  away;  and  would  you  come  and 

help  kill  earwigs  in  the  blue ? 

DICK.     Hang!        [He  goes,  and  ROSE  is  left  alone. 

ROSE.   [Looking  straight  before  her.]     Please,   Miss 

Joy,  the  Missis  says  will  you  go  to  her  about  your  frock. 

[There  is  a  little  pause,  then  from  the  hollow  tree 

JOY'S  voice  is  heard.] 
JOY.     No — o ! 
ROSE.    If  you  did  n't  come,  I  was  to  tell  you  she  was 

going  to  put  you  in  the  blue • 

[JoY  looks  out  of  the  tree.] 

[Immovable,  but  smiling.]     Oh,  Miss  Joy,  you  've  done 
your  hair  up !  [JOY  retires  into  the  tree.] 

Please,  Miss,  what  shall  I  tell  the  Missis? 

JOY.     [Joy's  voice  is  heard.]     Anything  you  like. 
ROSE.    [Over  her  shoulder.]    I  shall  be  drove  to  tell 
her  a  story,  Miss. 

JOY.     All  right!     Tell  it. 

[RosE  goes  away,  and  JOY  comes  out.     She  sits 
on  the  rustic  seat  and  waits.     DICK,  coming 
softly  from  the  house,  approaches  her.] 
DICK.    [Looking  at  her  intently.]    Joy!    I  wanted  to 

say  something 

[JoY  does  not  look  at  him,  but  twists  her  fingers.] 
I  shan't  see  you  again  you  know   after  to-morrow 
till  I  come  up  for  the  'Varsity  match. 
JOY.     [Smiling.]     But  that 's  next  week. 
DICK.     Must  you  go  home  to-morrow? 

[JoY  nods  three  times.] 


102  Joy 


ACT  I 


[Coming  closer.]    I  shall  miss  you  so  awfully.     You 

don't  know  how  I [Jov  shakes  her  head.] 

Do  look  at  me !     [Jo Y  steals  a  look.]    Oh !    Joy ! 

[Again  JOY  shakes  her  head. 
JOY.     [Suddenly.]    Don't! 

DICK.     [Seizing  her  hand.]    Oh,  Joy!      Can't  you — 
JOY.    [Drawing  the  hand  away.]     Oh!  don't. 

DICK.     [Bending  his  head.]    It's — it's — so 

JOY.     [Quietly.]     Don't,  Dick! 

DICK.    But  I  can't  help  it!     It 's  too  much  for  me, 

Joy,  I  must  tell  you 

[MRS.   GWYN  is  seen  approaching  towards  the 

house.] 

JOY.    [Spinning  round.]    It 's  Mother — oh,  Mother! 

[She  rushes  at  her. 

[MRS.  GWYN  is  a  handsome  creature  of  thirty-six, 
dressed  in  a  muslin  frock.     She  twists  her 
daughter  round,  and  kisses  her.] 
MRS.  GWYN.     How  sweet  you  look  with  your  hair 
up,  Joy!  Who  's  this?    [Glancing  with  a  smile  at  DICK. 
JOY.     Dick  Merton — in  my  letters  you  know. 

[She  looks  at  DICK  a5  though  she  wished  him 

gone.] 

MRS.  GWYN.     How  do  you  do? 
DICK.    [Shaking  hands.]    How  d  'you  do?    I  think 
if  you  '11  excuse  me — I  '11  go  in. 

[He  goes  uncertainly. 

MRS.  GWYN.     What 's  the  matter  with  him? 
JOY.     Oh,  nothing!    [Hugging  her.]    Mother!     You 
do  look  such  a  duck.     Why  did  you  come  by  the 
towing-path,  was  n't  it  cooking  ? 

MRS.  GWYN.    [Avoiding  her  eyes.]   Mr.  Lever  wanted 
to  go  into  Mr.  Henty's. 

[Her  manner  is  rather  artificially  composed. 


ACT  I 


Joy  103 


JOY.  [Dully.]  Oh!  Is  he — is  he  really  coming 
here,  Mother? 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Whose  voice  has  hardened  just  a  little.} 
If  Aunt  Nell 's  got  a  room  for  him — of  course — why 
not? 

JOY.  [Digging  her  chin  into  her  mother's  shoulder.} 
Why  couldn't  he  choose  some  day  when  we'd  gone? 
I  wanted  you  all  to  myself. 

MRS.  GWYN.  You  are  a  quaint  child — when  I  was 
your  age 

JOY.  [Suddenly  looking  up.}  Oh!  Mother,  you 
must  have  been  a  chook! 

MRS.  GWYN.  Well,  I  was  about  twice  as  old  as 
you,  I  know  that. 

JOY.  Had  you  any — any  other  offers  before  you 
were  married,  Mother? 

MRS.  GWYN.     [Smilingly.}    Heaps! 

JOY.     [Reflectively.]    Oh ! 

MRS.  GWYN.      Why?      Have  you  been  having  any? 

JOY.  [Glancing  at  MRS.  GWYN,  and  then  down.} 
N — o,  of  course  not! 

MRS.  GWYN.  Where  are  they  all?  Where 's 
Peachey? 

JOY.  Fussing  about  somewhere;  don't  let 's  hurry! 
Oh!  you  duckie — duckie!  Aren't  there  any  letters 
from  Dad? 

MRS.  GWYN.     [In  a  harder  voice.}    Yes,  one  or  two. 

JOY.     [Hesitating.}    Can't  I  see? 

MRS.  GWYN.  I  did  n't  bring  them.  [Changing  the 
subject  obviously.}  Help  me  to  tidy — I'm  so  hot  I 
don't  know  what  to  do. 

[She  takes  out  a  powder-puff  bag,  with  a  tiny 
looking-glass.} 

JOY.    How  lovely  it  '11  be  to-morrow — going  home! 


104  Joy 


ACT  I 


MRS.  GWYN.  [With  an  uneasy  look.]  London 's 
dreadfully  stuffy,  Joy.  You  '11  only  get  knocked  up 
again. 

JOY.  [With  consternation.]  Oh !  but  Mother,  I  must 
come. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Forcing  a  smile.]  Oh,  well,  if  you 
must,  you  must!  QOY  makes  a  dash  at  her.] 

Don't  rumple  me  again.     Here 's  Uncle  Tom. 

JOY.  [Quickly]  Mother,  we  're  going  to  dance  to- 
night; promise  to  dance  with  me — there  are  three 
more  girls  than  men,  at  least — and  don't  dance  too 
much  with — with — you  know — because  I  'm — [drop- 
ping her  voice  and  very  still] — jealous. 

MRS.  GWYN.      [Forcing  a  laugh.]    You  are  funny! 

JOY.  [Very  quickly.]  I  haven't  made  any  engage- 
ments because  of  you. 

[The  COLONEL  approaches  through  the  wall. 

MRS.  GWYN.     Well,  Uncle  Tom? 

COLONEL.  [Genially.]  Why,  Molly!  [He  kisses 
her.]  What  made  you  come  by  the  towing- 
path? 

JOY.     Because  it 's  so  much  cooler,  of  course. 

COLONEL.  Hallo!  What's  the  matter  with  you  ? 
Phew  !  you  've  got  your  hair  up!  Go  and  tell  your 
aunt  your  mother's  on  the  lawn.  Cut  along! 

QOY  goes,  blowing  a  kiss] 

Cracked  about  you,  Molly  !  Simply  cracked  !  We 
shall  miss  her  when  you  take  her  off  to-morrow.  [He 
places  a  chair  for  her.]  Sit  down,  sit  down,  you  must 
be  tired  in  this  heat.  I  've  sent  Bob  for  your  things 
with  the  wheelbarrow ;  what  have  you  got  ? — only  a 
bag,  I  suppose. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Sitting,  with  a  smile]  That's  all, 
Uncle  Tom,  except — my  trunk  and  hat-box. 


ACT  I 


Joy  105 


COLONEL.  Phew  !  And  what  's-his-name  brought 
a  bag,  I  suppose  ? 

MRS.  GWYN.  They're  all  together.  I  hope  it's 
not  too  much,  Uncle  Tom. 

COLONEL.  [Dubiously.]  Oh!  Bob '11  manage!  I 
suppose  you  see  a  good  deal  of — of — Lever.  That 's 
his  brother  in  the  Guards,  isn't  it? 

MRS.   GWYN.     Yes. 

COLONEL.     Now  what  does  this  chap  do? 

MRS.  GWYN.  What  should  he  do,  Uncle  Tom? 
He's  a  Director. 

COLONEL.  Guinea-pig!  [Dubiously.]  Your  bring- 
ing him  down  was  a  good  idea. 

[MRS.  GWYN,  looking  at  him  sidelong,  bites  her 

lips.] 

I  should  like  to  have  a  look  at  him.  But,  I  say, 
you  know,  Molly — mines,  mines!  There  are  a  lot  of 
these  chaps  about,  whose  business  is  to  cook  their 
own  dinners.  Your  aunt  thinks 

MRS.  GWYN.  Oh  !  Uncle  Tom,  don't  tell  me  what 
Aunt  Nell  thinks  ! 

COLONEL.  Well — well!  Look  here,  old  girl !  It's 
my  experience  never  to — what  I  mean  is — never  to 
trust  too  much  to  a  man  who  has  to  do  with  mining. 
I've  always  refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
mines.  If  your  husband  were  in  England,  of  course, 
I  'd  say  nothing. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Very  still]  We  'd  better  keep  him 
out  of  the  question,  had  n't  we  ? 

COLONEL.  Of  course,  if  you  wish  it,  my 
dear. 

MRS.  GWYN.     Unfortunately,  I  do. 

COLONEL.  [Nervously.]  Ah!  yes,  I  know;  but 
look  here,  Molly,  your  aunt  thinks  you  're  in  a  very 


106  Joy 


ACT  I 


delicate  position — in  fact,  she  thinks  you  see  too 
much  of  young  Lever 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Stretching  herself  like  an  angry  cat.] 
Does  she?  And  what  do  you  think? 

COLONEL.  I?  I  make  a  point  of  not  thinking.  I 
only  know  that  here  he  is,  and  I  don't  want  you  to 
go  burning  your  fingers,  eh  ? 

[MRS.  GWYN  sits  with  a  vindictive  smile.] 
A  gold  mine's  a  gold  mine.  I  don't  mean  he  delib- 
erately— but  they  take  in  women  and  parsons,  and — 
and  all  sorts  of  fools.  [Looking  down.]  And  then, 
you  know,  I  can't  tell  your  feelings,  my  dear,  and  I 
don't  want  to ;  but  a  man  about  town  '11  compromise  a 
woman  as  soon  as  he  '11  look  at  her,  and  [softly  shaking 
his  head]  I  don't  like  that,  Molly!  It  's  not  the 
thing! 

[MRS.  GWYN  sits  unmoved,  smiling  the  same 
smile,  and  the  COLONEL  gives  her  a  nervous 
look.] 

If — if  you  were  any  other  woman — 7  should  n't  care 
• — and  if — if  you  were  a  plain  woman,  damme,  you 
might  do  what  you  liked  !  I  know  you  and  Geoff 
don't  get  on ;  but  here  's  this  child  of  yours,  devoted 
to  you,  and — and  don't  you  see,  old  girl  ?  Eh  ? 

MRS.  GWYN.  [With  a  little  hard  laugh.]  Thanks! 
Perfectly  !  I  suppose  as  you  don't  think,  Uncle 
Tom,  it  never  occurred  to  you  that  7  have  rather  a 
lonely  time  of  it. 

COLONEL.  [With  compunction.]  Oh !  my  dear,  yes, 
of  course  I  know  it  must  be  beastly. 

MRS.  GWYN.     [Stonily.]    It  is. 

COLONEL.  Yes,  yes!  [Speaking  in  a  surprised 
voice.]  I  don't  know  what  I  'm  talking  like  this  for! 
It 's  your  aunt !  She  goes  on  at  me  till  she  gets  on  my 


ACT  I 


Joy  107 


nerves.  What  d'  you  think  she  wants  me  to  do  now? 
Put  money  into  this  gold  mine!  Did  you  ever  hear 
such  folly? 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Breaking  into  laughter.]  Oh!  Uncle 
Tom! 

COLONEL.     All  very  well  for  you  to  laugh,  Molly! 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Calmly.]  And  how  much  are  you 
going  to  put  in? 

COLONEL.  Not  a  farthing!  Why,  I've  got 
nothing  but  my  pension  and  three  thousand  India 
stock! 

MRS.  GWYN.  Only  ninety  pounds  a  year,  besides 
your  pension !  D'  you  mean  to  say  that  's  all  you  've 
got,  Uncle  Tom?  J  never  knew  that  before.  What 
a  shame! 

COLONEL.  [Feelingly.]  It  is — a  d — d  shame!  I 
don't  suppose  there's  another  case  in  the  army  of 
a  man  being  treated  as  I  've  been. 

MRS.  GWYN.  But  how  on  earth  do  you  manage 
here  on  so  little? 

COLONEL.  [Brooding.]  Your  aunt's  very  funny. 
She  's  a  born  manager.  She  'd  manage  the  hind  leg 
off  a  donkey ;  but  if  /  want  five  shillings  for  a  charity 
or  what  not,  I  have  to  whistle  for  it.  And  then  all 
of  a  sudden,  Molly,  she  '11  take  it  into  her  head  to 
spend  goodness  knows  what  on  some  trumpery  or 
other  and  come  to  me  for  the  money.  If  I  have  n't 
got  it  to  give  her,  out  she  flies  about  3  per  cent.,  and 
worries  me  to  invest  in  some  wild-cat  or  other,  like 
your  friend's  thing,  the  Jaco — what  is  it?  I  don't 
pay  the  slightest  attention  to  her. 

MRS.  HOPE.  [From  the  direction  of  the  house.] 
Tom! 

COLONEL.     [Rising.]     Yes,  dear!      [Then  dropping 


io8  Joy 


ACTl 


his  voice.]  I  say,  Molly,  don't  you  mind  what  I  said 
about  young  Lever.  I  don't  want  you  to  imagine 
that  I  think  harm  of  people — you  know  I  don't — but 
so  many  women  come  to  grief,  and — [hotly] — I  can't 

stand  men  about  town ;  not  that  he  of  course 

MRS.  HOPE.     [Peremptorily]    Tom! 

COLONEL.     [In  hasty  confidence.]    I  find  it  best  to 

let  your  aunt  run  on.     If  she  says  anything 

MRS.  HOPE.     To-om! 
COLONEL.     Yes,  dear! 

[He  goes   hastily.     MRS.    GWYN   sits   drawing 
circles  on  the  ground  with  her  charming  para- 
sol.    Suddenly  she  springs  to  her  feet,  and 
stands  waiting  like  an  animal  at  bay.     The 
COLONEL  and  MRS.  HOPE  approachher  talking.] 
MRS.  HOPE.     Well,  how  was  7  to  know? 
CCLONEL.     Did  n't  Joy  come  and  tell  you? 
MRS.  HOPE.     I  don't  know  what 's  the  matter  with 
that  child?      Well,  Molly,  so  here  you  are.     You're 
before  your  time — that  train  's  always  late. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [With  faint  irony.]  I  'm  sorry,  Aunt 
Nell! 

[They  bob,  seem  to  take   fright,  and  kiss  each 

other  gingerly.] 

MRS.  HOPE.  What  have  you  done  with  Mr.  Lever? 
I  shall  have  to  put  him  in  Peachey 's  room.  Tom's 
got  no  champagne. 

COLONEL.     They  've  a  very  decent  brand  down  at 

the  George,  Molly,  I  '11  send  Bob  over 

MRS.  HOPE.  Rubbish,  Tom!  He  '11  just  have  to 
put  up  with  what  he  can  get! 

MRS.  GWYN.  Of  course!  He  's  not  a  snob!  For 
goodness  sake,  Aunt  Nell,  don't  put  yourself  out! 
I  'm  sorry  I  suggested  his  coming. 


ACT  I 


Joy  109 


COLONEL.  My  dear,  we  ought  to  have  champagne 
in  the  house — in  case  of  accident. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Shaking  him  gently  by  the  coat.]  No, 
please,  Uncle  Tom! 

MRS.  HOPE.  [Suddenly.]  Now,  I  've  told  your 
uncle,  Molly,  that  he  's  not  to  go  in  for  this  gold  mine 
without  making  certain  it 's  a  good  thing.  Mind,  I 
think  you  've  been  very  rash.  I  'm  going  to  give  you 
a  good  talking  to ;  and  that 's  not  all — you  ought  n't 
to  go  about  like  this  with  a  young  man;  he's  not  at 
all  bad  looking.  I  remember  him  perfectly  well  at 
the  Fleming's  dance. 

[On  MRS.  GWYN'S  lips  there  comes  a  little  mock- 
ing smile.] 

COLONEL.     [Pulling  his  wife's  sleeve.]    Nell! 

MRS.  HOPE.  No,  Tom,  I  'm  going  to  talk  to  Molly; 
she  's  old  enough  to  know  better. 

MRS.  GWYN.     Yes? 

MRS.  HOPE.  Yes,  and  you  '11  get  yourself  into  a 
mess;  I  don't  approve  of  it,  and  when  I  see  a  thing 
I  don't  approve  of 

COLONEL.  [Walking  about,  and  pulling  his  mous- 
tache.] Nell,  I  won't  have  it,  I  simply  won't  have  it. 

MRS.  HOPE.  What  rate  of  interest  are  these  Pre- 
ference shares  to  pay? 

MRS.  GWYN.     [Still  smiling.]    Ten  per  cent. 

MRS.  HOPE.  What  did  I  tell  you,  Tom?  And  are 
they  safe? 

MRS.  GWYN.     You  'd  better  ask  Maurice. 

MRS.  HOPE.  There,  you  see,  you  call  him  Maurice! 
Now  supposing  your  uncle  went  in  for  some  of 
them 

COLONEL.  [Taking  off  his  hat — in  a  high,  hot  voice] 
I  'm  not  going  in  for  anything  of  the  sort. 


HO  Oy  ACT  I 

MRS.  HOPE.  Don't  swing  your  hat  by  the  brim! 
Go  and  look  if  you  can  see  him  coming  ! 

[The  COLONEL  goes.] 

[In  a  lower  voice.]  Your  uncle  's  getting  very  bald. 
I  've  only  shoulder  of  lamb  for  lunch,  and  a  salad. 
It 's  lucky  it 's  too  hot  to  eat. 

[Miss  BEECH  has  appeared  while  she  is  speaking.] 
Here  she  is,  Peachey! 

Miss  BEECH.  I  see  her.  [She  kisses  MRS.  GWYN, 
and  looks  at  her  intently.] 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Shrugging  her  shoulders.}  Well, 
Peachey!  What  d 'you  make  of  me? 

COLONEL.  {Returning  from  his  search.]  There  's  a 
white  hat  crossing  the  second  stile.  Is  that  your 
friend,  Molly?  [MRS.  GWYN  nods. 

MRS.  HOPE.  Oh!  before  I  forget,  Peachey — Letty 
and  Ernest  can  move  their  things  back  again.  I  'm 
going  to  put  Mr.  Lever  in  your  room.  [Catching  sight 
of  the  paint  pot  on  the  ground.]  There  's  that  disgust- 
ing paint  pot!  Take  it  up  at  once,  Tom,  and  put  it 
in  the  tree. 

[  The  COLONEL  picks  up  the  pot  and  bears  it  to  the 
hollow  tree  followed  by  MRS.  HOPE;  he  enters.] 
MRS.  HOPE.     [Speaking  into  the  tree.]     Not  there  ! 
COLONEL.     [From  within.]    Well,  where  then? 
MRS.  HOPE.     Why — up — oh!  gracious! 

[MRS.  GWYN,  standing  alone,  is  smiling.  LEVER 
approaches  from  the  towing-path.  He  is  a 
man  like  a  fencer's  wrist,  supple  and  steely. 
A  man  whose  age  is  difficult  to  tell,  with  a 
quick,  good-looking  face,  and  a  line  between 
his  brows;  his  darkish  hair  is  flecked  with 
grey.  He  gives  the  feeling  that  he  has  always 
had  to  spurt  to  keep  pace  with  his  own  life.] 


ACT  I 


Joy  in 


MRS.  HOPE.     [Also  entering  the  hollow  tree.]    No — oh! 
COLONEL.     [From  the  depths,  in  a  high  voice.]     Well, 
dash  it  then!     What  do  you  want? 

MRS.  GWYN.  Peachey,  may  I  introduce  Mr.  Lever 
to  you?  Miss  Beech,  my  old  governess. 

[They  shake  each  other  by  the  hand. 
LEVER.     How  do  you  do? 

[His  voice  is  pleasant,  his  manner  easy. 
Miss  BEECH.     Pleased  to  meet  you. 

[Her  manner  is  that  of  one  who  is  not  pleased. 

She  watches.] 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Pointing  to  the  tree — maliciously.] 
This  is  my  uncle  and  my  aunt.  They  're  taking 
exercise,  I  think. 

[The  COLONEL  and  MRS.  HOPE  emerge  convul- 
sively. They  are  very  hot.  LEVER  and 
MRS.  GWYN  are  very  cool.] 

MRS.  HOPE.  [Shaking  hands  with  him.]  So  you  've 
got  here !  Are  n't  you  very  hot  ? — Tom ! 

COLONEL.  Brought  a  splendid  day  with  you! 
Splendid! 

[As  he  speaks,  JOY  comes  running  with  a  bunch 
of  roses;  seeing  LEVER,  she  stops  and  stands 
quite  rigid.] 

Miss  BEECH.     [Sitting  in  the  swing.]    Thunder! 
COLONEL.     Thunder?      Nonsense,  Peachey,  you  're 
always  imagining  something.     Look  at  the  sky! 
Miss  BEECH.     Thunder! 

[MRS.  GWYN'S  smile  has  faded. 
MRS.  HOPE.     [Turning.]    Joy,  don't  you  see  Mr. 
Lever? 

[JoY,  turning  to  her  mother,  gives  her  the  roses. 
With  a  forced  smile,  LEVER  advances,  holding 
out  his  hand.] 


ii2  Joy 


ACT  I 


LEVER.     How  are  you,  Joy?     Have  n't  seen  you  for 
an  age! 

JOY.     [Without  expression.]    I  am  very  well,  thank 
you. 

[She  raises  her  hand,  and  just  touches  his.  MRS. 
GWYN'S  eyes  are  fixed  on  her  daughter.  Miss 
BEECH  is  watching  them  intently.  MRS.  HOPE 
is  buttoning  the  COLONEL'S  coat.] 


The  curtain  falls. 


ACT  II 

It  is  afternoon,  and  at  a  garden-table  placed  beneath 
the  hollow  tree,  the  COLONEL  is  poring  over  plans. 
Astride  of  a  garden-chair,  LEVER  is  smoking 
cigarettes.  DICK  is  hanging  Chinese  lanterns  to  the 
hollow  tree. 

LEVER.  Of  course,  if  this  level  [pointing  with  his 
cigarette]  peters  out  to  the  West  we  shall  be  in  a 
tightish  place;  you  know  what  a  mine  is  at  this 
stage,  Colonel  Hope. 

COLONEL.  [Absently.]  Yes,  yes.  [Tracing  a  line.] 
What  is  there  to  prevent  its  running  out  here  to  the 
East? 

LEVER.  Well,  nothing,  except  that  as  a  matter  of 
fact  it  doesn't. 

COLONEL.  [With  some  excitement.]  I  'm  very  glad 
you  showed  me  these  papers,  very  glad !  7  say  that 
it 's  a  most  astonishing  thing  if  the  ore  suddenly  stops 
there.  [A  gleam  of  humour  visits  LEVER'S  face.] 

I'm  not  an  expert,  but  you  ought  to  prove  that 
ground  to  the  East  more  thoroughly. 

LEVER.  [Quizzically.]  Of  course,  sir,  if  you  advise 
that 

COLONEL.  If  it  were  mine,  I  'd  no  more  sit  down 
under  the  belief  that  the  ore  stopped  there,  than 
I  'd There  's  a  harmony  in  these  things. 

LEVER.     I  can  only  tell  you  what  our  experts  say. 

8 


ii4  Joy 


ACT  II 


COLONEL.  Ah!  Experts!  No  faith  in  them — 
never  had!  Miners,  lawyers,  theologians,  cowardly 
lot — pays  them  to  be  cowardly.  When  they  have  n't 
their  own  axes  to  grind,  they  've  got  their  theories; 
a  theory  's  a  dangerous  thing.  [He  loses  himself  in 
contemplation  of  the  papers.]  Now  my  theory  is, 
you  're  in  strata  here  of  what  we  call  the  Triassic  Age 

LEVER.     [Smiling   faintly.]    Ah! 

COLONEL.  You  've  struck  a  fault,  that 's  what 's 
happened.  The  ore  may  be  as  much  as  thirty  or 
forty  yards  out ;  but  it  's  there,  depend  on  it. 

LEVER.     Would  you  back  that  opinion,  sir? 

COLONEL.  [With  dignity.]  I  never  give  an  opin- 
ion that  I  'm  not  prepared  to  back.  I  want  to  get  to 
the  bottom  of  this.  What 's  to  prevent  the  gold  going 
down  indefinitely  ? 

LEVER.     Nothing,  so  far  as  I  know. 

COLONEL.     [With  suspicion.]    Eh! 

LEVER.  All  I  can  tell  you  is:  This  is  as  far  as 
we  've  got,  and  we  want  more  money  before  we  can 
get  any  farther. 

COLONEL.     [Absently.]  Yes,  yes;  that 's  very  usual. 

LEVER.  If  you  ask  my  personal  opinion  I  think  it 's 
very  doubtful  that  the  gold  does  go  down. 

COLONEL.  [Smiling.]  Oh  !  a  personal  opinion — 
on  a  matter  of  this  sort! 

LEVER.  [As  though  about  to  take  the  papers.]  Per- 
haps we  'd  better  close  the  sitting,  sir;  sorry  to  have 
bored  you. 

COLONEL.  Now,  now!  Don't  be  so  touchy!  If 
I  'm  to  put  money  in,  I  'm  bound  to  look  at  it  all 
round. 

LEVER.  [With  lifted  brows.]  Please  don't  imagine 
that  I  want  you  to  put  money  in. 


ACT  a 


Joy  us 


COLONEL.  Confound  it,  sir!  D  'you  suppose  I 
take  you  for  a  Company  promoter? 

LEVER.     Thank  you! 

COLONEL.  [Looking  at  him  doubtfully.]  You  've 
got  Irish  blood  in  you — um?  You  're  so  hasty! 

LEVER.  If  you  're  really  thinking  of  taking  shares 
— my  advice  to  you  is,  don't! 

COLONEL.  [Regretfully.]  If  this  were  an  ordinary 
gold  mine,  I  would  n't  dream  of  looking  at  it,  I 
want  you  to  understand  that.  Nobody  has  a  greater 
objection  to  gold  mines  than  I. 

LEVER.  [Looks  down  at  his  host  with  half-closed 
eyes.]  But  it  is  a  gold  mine,  Colonel  Hope. 

COLONEL.  I  know,  I  know;  but  I  've  been  into 
it  for  myself;  I  've  formed  my  opinion  personally. 
Now,  what 's  the  reason  you  don't  want  me  to 
invest? 

LEVER.  Well,  if  it  doesn't  turn  out  as  you  expect, 
you  '11  say  it 's  my  doing.  I  know  what  investors 
are. 

COLONEL.  [Dubiously.]  If  it  were  a  Westralian 
or  a  Kaffir  I  would  n't  touch  it  with  a  pair  of  tongs ! 
It 's  not  as  if  I  were  going  to  put  much  in!  [He 
suddenly  bends  above  the  papers  as  though  magnetically 
attracted.]  I  like  these  Triassic  formations! 

[DicK,  who  has  hung  the  last  lantern,  moodily 
departs.] 

LEVER.  [Looking  after  him.]  That  young  man 
seems  depressed. 

COLONEL.  [As  though  remembering  his  principles.] 
I  don't  like  mines,  never  have!  [Suddenly  absorbed 
again.]  I  tell  you  what,  Lever — this  thing's  got 
tremendous  possibilities.  You  don't  seem  to  believe 
in  it  enough.  No  mine's  any  good  without  faith; 


u6  Joy 


Acrn 


until  I  see  for  myself,  however,  I  shan't  commit 
myself  beyond  a  thousand. 

LEVER.     Are  you  serious,  sir? 

COLONEL.  Certainly  !  I  've  been  thinking  it  over 
ever  since  you  told  me  Henty  had  fought  shy.  I  've 
a  poor  opinion  of  Henty.  He 's  one  of  those  fellows 
that  says  one  thing  and  does  another.  An  oppor- 
tunist ! 

LEVER.  [Slowly.]  I  'm  afraid  we  're  all  that,  more 
or  less.  [He  sits  beneath  the  hollow  tree. 

COLONEL.  A  man  never  knows  what  he  is  himself. 

There  's  my  wife.  She  thinks  she  's By  the  way, 

don't  say  anything  to  her  about  this,  please.  And, 
Lever  [nervously],  I  don't  think,  you  know,  this  is 
quite  the  sort  of  thing  for  my  niece. 

LEVER.  [Quietly.}  I  agree.  I  mean  to  get  her 
out  of  it. 

COLONEL.  [A  little  taken  aback.}  Ah!  You  know, 
she — she's  in  a  very  delicate  position,  living  by  her- 
self in  London.  [LEVER  looks  at  him  ironically.}  You 
[very  nervously}  see  a  good  deal  of  her?  If  it  had  n't 
been  for  Joy  growing  so  fast,  we  should  n't  have  had 
the  child  down  here.  Her  mother  ought  to  have  her 
with  her.  Eh!  Don't  you  think  so? 

LEVER.  [Forcing  a  smile.}  Mrs.  Gwyn  always 
seems  to  me  to  get  on  all  right. 

COLONEL.  [As  though  making  a  discovery.}  You 
know,  I  've  found  that  when  a  woman 's  living  alone 
and  unprotected,  the  very  least  thing  will  set  a  lot 
of  hags  and  jackanapes  talking.  [Hotly.}  The  more 
unprotected  and  helpless  a  woman  is,  the  more  they 
revel  in  it.  If  there  's  anything  I  hate  in  this  world, 
it's  those  wretched  creatures  who  babble  about  their 
neighbours'  affairs. 


ACT  II 


Joy  117 


LEVER.     I  agree  with  you. 

COLONEL.  One  ought  to  be  very  careful  not  to  give 
them — that  is  [checks  himself  confused;  then  hurrying 
on] — I  suppose  you  and  Joy  get  on  all  right? 

LEVER.  [Coolly.]  Pretty  well,  thanks.  I  'm  not 
exactly  in  Joy's  line ;  have  n't  seen  very  much  of  her, 
in  fact. 

[Miss  BEECH  and  JOY  have  been  approaching 
from  the  house.  But  seeing  LEVER,  JOY 
turns  abruptly,  hesitates  a  moment,  and  with 
an  angry  gesture  goes  away.] 

COLONEL  [Unconscious.]  Wonderfully  affection- 
ate little  thing!  Well,  she  '11  be  going  home 
to-morrow ! 

Miss  BEECH.  [Who  has  been  gazing  after  JOY.] 
Talkin'  business,  poor  creatures? 

LEVER.  Oh,  no !  If  you  '11  excuse  me,  I  '11  wash 
my  hands  before  tea. 

[He  glances  at  the  COLONEL  poring  over  papers, 

and,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  strolls  away.] 
Miss  BEECH.     [Sitting  in  the  swing.]    I  see  your 
horrid  papers. 

COLONEL.     Be  quiet,  Peachey! 
Miss  BEECH.     On  a  beautiful  summer's  day,  too. 
COLONEL.     That  '11  do  now. 

Miss  BEECH.     [Unmoved.]    For  every  ounce  you 
take  out  of  a  gold  mine  you  put  two  in. 
COLONEL.     Who  told  you  that  rubbish? 
Miss  BEECH.     [With  devilry.]     You  did! 
COLONEL.     This  is  n't  an  ordinary  gold  mine. 
Miss  BEECH.     Oh!  quite  a  special  thing. 

[COLONEL  stares  at  her,   but  subsiding  at  her 

impassivity,  he  pores  again  over  the  papers. ] 

[Ross  has  approached  with  a  tea  cloth. 


n8  Joy 


ACT  II 


ROSE.  If  you  please,  sir,  the  Missis  told  me  to  lay 
the  tea. 

COLONEL.  Go  away!  Ten  fives  fifty.  Ten  5- 
i6ths,  Peachey? 

Miss  BEECH..     I  hate  your  nasty  sums! 

[Ross  goes  away.  The  COLONEL  writes.  MRS. 
HOPE'S  voice  is  heard,  "Now  then,  bring 
those  chairs,  you  two.  Not  that  one,  Ernest." 
ERNEST  and  LETTY  appear  through  the 
openings  of  the  wall,  each  with  a  chair.] 

COLONEL.  [With  dull  exasperation.]  What  do  you 
want? 

LETTY.     Tea,  Father. 

[She  places  her  chair  and  goes  away. 

ERNEST.  That  Johnny-bird  Lever  is  too  cocksure 
for  me,  Colonel.  Those  South  American  things  are 
no  good  at  all.  I  know  all  about  them  from  young 
Scrotton.  There  's  not  one  that 's  worth  a  red  cent. 
If  you  want  a  flutter 

COLONEL.  [Explosively.]  Flutter!  I'm  not  a 
gambler,  sir! 

ERNEST.  Well,  Colonel  [with  a  smile],  I  only  don't 
want  you  to  chuck  your  money  away  on  a  stiff 
'un.  If  you  want  anything  good  you  should  go  to 
Mexico. 

COLONEL.     [Jumping  up  and  holding  out  the  map.] 

Go  to [He  stops  in  time.]    What  d  'you  call  that, 

eh?     M-E-X— 

ERNEST.  [Not  to  be  embarrassed.]  It  all  depend* 
on  what  part. 

COLONEL.  You  think  you  know  everything — you 
think  nothing 's  right  unless  it 's  your  own  idea!  Be 
good  enough  to  keep  your  advice  to  yourself. 

ERNEST.     [Moving  with  his  chair,  and  stopping  with 


ACT  II 


Joy  119 


a  smile.}    If  you  ask  me,  I  should  say  it  was  n't  play- 
ing the  game  to  put  Molly  into  a  thing  like  that. 
COLONEL.     What  do  you  mean,  sir? 
ERNEST.     Any  Juggins  can  see  that  she  's  a  bit  gone 
on  our  friend. 

COLONEL.     [Freezingly]    Indeed! 
ERNEST.     He's  not  at  all  the  sort  of  Johnny  that 
appeals  to  me. 
COLONEL.     Really? 

ERNEST.  [Unmoved.]  If  I  were  you,  Colonel,  I 
should  tip  her  the  wink.  He  was  hanging  about  her 
at  Ascot  all  the  time.  It 's  a  bit  thick! 

[MRS.   HOPE  followed  by  ROSE  appears  from 

the  house.] 

COLONEL.  [Stammering  with  passion.]  Jacka- 
napes! 

MRS.  HOPE.  Don't  stand  there,  Tom;  clear  those 
papers,  and  let  Rose  lay  the  table.  Now,  Ernest, 
go  and  get  another  chair. 

[The  COLONEL  looks  wildly  round  and  sits  be- 
neath the  hollow  tree,  with  his  head  held  in 
his  hands.     ROSE  lays  the  cloth.] 
Miss  BEECH.     [Sitting  beside  the  COLONEL.]     Poor 
creature ! 

ERNEST.  [Carrying  his  chair  about  with  him.]  Ask 
any  Johnny  in  the  City,  he  '11  tell  you  Mexico  's  a 

very  tricky  country — the  people  are  awful  rotters 

MRS.  HOPE.     Put  that  chair  down,  Ernest. 

[ERNEST  looks  at  the  chair,  puts  it  down,  opens 
his  mouth,  and  goes  away.  ROSE  follows 
him.] 

What's  he  been  talking  about?  You  ought  n't  to 
get  so  excited,  Tom;  is  your  head  bad,  old  man? 
Here,  take  these  papers!  [She  hands  the  papers  to 


120  Joy 


ACT  II 


the  COLONEL.]  Peachey,  go  in  and  tell  them  tea  '11 
be  ready  in  a  minute,  there's  a  good  soul?  Oh! 
and  on  my  dressing  table  you  '11  find  a  bottle  of  Eau 
de  Cologne 

Miss  BEECH.  Don't  let  him  get  in  a  temper  again. 
That 's  three  times  to-day! 

[She  goes  towards  the  house. 

COLONEL.  Never  met  such  a  fellow  in  my  life,  the 
most  opinionated,  narrow-minded — thinks  he  knows 
everything.  Whatever  Letty  could  see  in  him  I  can't 
think.  Pragmatical  beggar! 

MRS.  HOPE.  Now  Tom!  What  have  you  been  up 
to,  to  get  into  a  state  like  this? 

COLONEL.  [Avoiding  her  eyes.]  I  shall  lose  my 
temper  with  him  one  of  these  days.  He  's  got  that 
confounded  habit  of  thinking  nobody  can  be  right 
but  himself. 

MRS.  HOPE.  That 's  enough!  I  want  to  talk  to 
you  seriously!  Dick's  in  love.  I'm  perfectly  cer- 
tain of  it. 

COLONEL.  Love  !  Who 's  he  in  love  with — 
Peachey  ? 

MRS.  HOPE.  You  can  see  it  all  over  him.  If  I  saw 
any  signs  of  Joy's  breaking  out,  I  'd  send  them  both 
away.  I  simply  won't  have  it. 

COLONEL.     Why,  she's  a  child! 

MRS.  HOPE.  [Pursuing  her  own  thoughts.]  But  she 
isn't — not  yet.  I  've  been  watching  her  very  care- 
fully. She  's  more  in  love  with  her  Mother  than  any 
one,  follows  her  about  like  a  dog!  She  's  been  quite 
rude  to  Mr.  Lever. 

COLONEL.  [Pursuing  his  own  thoughts.]  I  don't 
believe  a  word  of  it.  [He  rises  and  walks  about. 

MRS.  HOPE.     Don't  believe  a  word  of  what? 


ACT1I 


Joy  121 


[The  COLONEL  is  silent.] 

[Pursuing  his  thoughts  with  her  own.]  If  I  thought 
there  was  anything  between  Molly  and  Mr.  Lever, 
d  'you  suppose  I  'd  have  him  in  the  house  ? 

[The  COLONEL  stops,  and  gives  a  sort  of  grunt] 
He's  a  very  nice  fellow;  and  I  want  you  to  pump 
him  well,  Tom,  and  see  what  there  is  in  this  mine. 

COLONEL.     [Uneasily]    Pump! 

MRS.  HOPE.  [Looking  at  him  curiously.]  Yes, 
you  've  been  up  to  something!  Now  what  is  it? 

COLONEL.  Pump  my  own  guest!  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  thing! 

MRS.  HOPE.  There  you  are  on  your  high  horse! 
I  do  wish  you  had  a  little  common-sense,  Tom! 

COLONEL.  I  'd  as  soon  you  asked  me  to  sneak  about 
eavesdropping !  Pump ! 

MRS.  HOPE.  Well,  what  were  you  looking  at  these 
papers  for?  It  does  drive  me  so  wild  the  way  you 
throw  away  all  the  chances  you  have  of  making  a 
little  money.  I  've  got  you  this  opportunity,  and 
you  do  nothing  but  rave  up  and  down,  and  talk 
nonsense ! 

COLONEL.     [In   a   high   voice  ]    Much   you    know 

about  it !      I  've  taken  a  thousand  shares  in  this  mine ! 

[He  stops  dead.     There  is  a  silence. 

MRS.  HOPE.  You've— WHAT?  Without  con- 
sulting me?  Well,  then,  you  '11  just  go  and  take 
them  out  again! 

COLONEL.     You  want  me  to ? 

MRS.  HOPE.  The  idea  !  As  if  you  could  trust 
your  judgment  in  a  thing  like  that  !  You  '11  just 
go  at  once  and  say  there  was  a  mistake;  then  we  '11 
talk  it  over  calmly. 

COLONEL.     [Drawing    himself    up]     Go    back    on 


122  Joy 


ACT  II 


what  I  've  said?  Not  if  I  lose  every  penny!  First 
you  worry  me  to  take  the  shares,  and  then  you  worry 
me  not — I  won't  have  it,  Nell,  I  won't  have  it! 

MRS.  HOPE.  Well,  if  I  'd  thought  you  'd  have  for- 
gotten what  you  said  this  morning  and  turned  about 
like  this,  d  'you  suppose  I  'd  have  spoken  to  you  at 
all?  Now,  do  you? 

COLONEL.  Rubbish!  If  you  can't  see  that  this  is 
a  special  opportunity! 

[He  walks  away  followed  by  MRS.  HOPE,  who 
endeavors  to  make  him  see  her  point  of  view. 
ERNEST  and  LETTY  are  now  returning  from 
the  house  armed  with  a  third  chair.} 

LETTY.  What 's  the  matter  with  everybody?  Is 
it  the  heat? 

ERNEST.  [Preoccupied  and  sitting  in  the  swing.] 
That  sportsman,  Lever,  you  know,  ought  to  be 
warned  off. 

[ROSE  has  followed  with  the  tea  tray. 

LETTY.  [Signing  to  ERNEST.]  Where  's  Miss  Joy, 
Rose? 

ROSE.     Don't  know,  Miss. 

[Putting  down  the  tray,  she  goes. 

LETTY.  Ernie,  be  careful,  you  never  know  where 
Joy  is. 

ERNEST.  [Preoccupied  with  his  reflections. \  Your 
old  Dad  's  as  mad  as  a  hatter  with  me. 

LETTY.     Why? 

ERNEST.  Well,  I  merely  said  what  I  thought,  that 
Molly  ought  to  look  out  what 's  she 's  doing,  and  he 
dropped  on  me  like  a  cartload  of  bricks. 

LETTY.     The  Dad  's  very  fond  of  Molly. 

ERNEST.  But  look  here,  d  "you  mean  to  tell  me 
that  she  and  Lever  are  n't 


Joy  123 

LETTY.  Don't!  Suppose  they  are!  If  Joy  were 
to  hear  it  'd  be  simply  awful.  I  like  Molly.  7  'm  not 
going  to  believe  anything  against  her.  I  don't  see 
the  use  of  it.  If  it  is,  it  is,  and  if  it  is  n't,  it  is  n't. 

ERNEST.  Well,  all  I  know  is  that  when  I  told  her 
the  mine  was  probably  a  frost  she  went  for  me  like 
steam. 

LETTY.  Well,  so  should  I.  She  was  only  sticking 
up  for  her  friends. 

ERNEST.  Ask  the  old  Peachey-bird.  She  knows  a 
thing  or  two.  Look  here,  I  don't  mind  a  man's 
being  a  bit  of  a  sportsman,  but  I  think  Molly's 
bringin'  him  down  here  is  too  thick.  Your  old  Dad 's 
got  one  of  his  notions  that  because  this  Josser 's  his 
guest,  he  must  keep  him  in  a  glass  case,  and  take 
shares  in  his  mine,  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 

LETTY.  I  do  think  people  are  horrible,  always 
thinking  things.  It 's  not  as  if  Molly  were  a  stranger. 
She  's  my  own  cousin.  I  'm  not  going  to  believe 
anything  about  my  own  cousin.  I  simply  won't. 

ERNEST.  [Reluctantly  realising  the  difference  that 
this  makes.]  I  suppose  it  does  make  a  difference,  her 
bein'  your  cousin. 

LETTY.  Of  course  it  does  !  I  only  hope  to  good- 
ness no  one  will  make  Joy  suspect 

[She  stops  and  puts  her  finger  to  her  lips,  for 
JOY  is  coming  towards  them,  as  the  tea-bell 
sounds.  She  is  followed  by  DICK  and  Miss 
BEECH  with  the  Eau  de  Cologne.  The 
COLONEL  and  MRS.  HOPE  are  also  coming 
back,  discussing  still  each  other's  point  of 
view.] 

JOY.     Where  's  Mother?     Isn't  she  here? 
MRS.  HOPE.     Now  Joy,  come  and  sit  down;  your 


124  Joy 


ACT  II 


mother's  been  told  tea's  ready;  if  she  lets  it  get 
cold  it's  her  lookout. 

DICK.     [Producing  a  rug,  and  spreading  it  beneath 
the  tree.]     Plenty  of  room,  Joy. 

JOY.     I  don't  believe  Mother  knows,  Aunt  Nell. 
[MRS.  GWYN  and  LEVER  appear  in  the  opening 

of  the  wall.] 
LETTY.     [Touching  ERNEST'S  arm.]     Look,  Ernie! 

Four  couples  and  Peachey 

ERNEST.     [Preoccupied.]    What  couples? 
JOY.     Oh  !  Mums,  here  you  are! 

[Seizing  her,  she  turns  her  back  on  LEVER. 
They  sit  in  various  seats,  and  MRS.  HOPE 
pours  out  the  tea.] 

MRS.  HOPE.     Hand  the  sandwiches  to  Mr.  Lever, 
Peachey.     It 's  our  own  jam,  Mr.  Lever. 

LEVER.     Thanks.     [He  takes  a  bite.]    It 's  splendid ! 
MRS.   GWYN.     [With  forced  gaiety.]    It's  the  first 
time  I'  ve  ever  seen  you  eat  jam. 

LEVER.     [Smiling  a  forced  smile.]     Really!     But 
I  love  it. 

MRS.  GWYN.     [With  a  little  bow.]    You  always  re- 
fuse mine. 

JOY.     [Who  has  been  staring  at  her  enemy,  suddenly.] 

I  'm  all  burnt  up !     Are  n't  you  simply  boiled,  Mother  ? 

[She  touches  her  Mother's  forehead. 

MRS.  GWYN.      Ugh!    You're  quite  clammy,  Joy. 

JOY.     It 's  enough  to  make  any  one  clammy. 

[Her  eyes  go  back  to  LEVER'S  face  as  though 

to  stab  him.] 

ERNEST.     [From  the  swing.]    I  say,  you  know,  the 
glass  is  going  down. 

LEVER.     [Suavely.]    The  glass  in  the  hall 's  steady 
enough. 


ACT1I 


Joy  125 


ERNEST.  Oh,  I  never  go  by  that;  that's  a  rotten 
old  glass. 

COLONEL.     Oh!  is  it? 

ERNEST.  [Paying  no  attention.]  I've  got  a  little 
ripper — never  puts  you  in  the  cart.  Bet  you  what 
you  like  we  have  thunder  before  to-morrow  night. 

Miss  BEECH.  [Removing  her  gaze  from  JOY  to 
LEVER.]  You  don't  think  we  shall  have  it  before 
to-night,  do  you? 

LEVER.  [Suavely.]  I  beg  your  pardon;  did  you 
speak  to  me? 

Miss  BEECH.  I  said,  you  don't  think  we  shall  have 
the  thunder  before  to-night,  do  you? 

[She  resumes  her  watch  on  JOY. 

LEVER.  [Blandly.}  Really,  I  don't  see  any  signs  of  it. 
QOY,  crossing   to  the  rug,  flings  herself  down. 
And   DICK   sits  cross-legged,  with   his  eyes 
fast  fixed  on  her.] 

Miss  BEECH.  [Eating.]  People  don't  often  see 
what  they  don't  want  to,  do  they? 

[LEVER  only  lifts  his  brows. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Quickly  breaking  in.]  What  are  you 
talking  about  ?  The  weather  's  perfect. 

Miss  BEECH.     Isn't  it? 

MRS.  HOPE.  You'd  better  make  a  good  tea, 
Peachey ;  nobody  '11  get  anything  till  eight,  and  then 
only  cold  shoulder.  You  must  just  put  up  with  no 
hot  dinner,  Mr.  Lever. 

LEVER.  [Bowing.]  Whatever  is  good  enough  for 
Miss  Beech  is  good  enough  for  me. 

Miss  BEECH.  [Sardonically — taking  another  sand- 
wich.] So  you  think! 

MRS.  GWYN.  [With  forced  gaiety.]  Don't  be  so 
absurd,  Peachey. 


i26  Joy 


ACT  II 


[Miss  BEECH  grunts  slightly. 

COLONEL.  [Once  more  busy  with  his  papers.]  I  see 
the  name  of  your  engineer  is  Rodriguez — Italian,  eh? 

LEVER.     Portuguese. 

COLONEL.     Don't  like  that! 

LEVER.     I  believe  he  was  born  in  England. 

COLONEL.     [Reassured.]     Oh,  was  he?     Ah! 

ERNEST.     Awful  rotters,  those  Portuguese! 

COLONEL.     There  you  go! 

LETTY.  Well,  Father,  Ernie  only  said  what  you 
said. 

MRS.  HOPE.  Now  I  want  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Lever,  is 
this  gold  mine  safe  ?  If  it  isn't — I  simply  won't 
allow  Tom  to  take  these  shares ;  he  can't  afford  it. 

LEVER.  It  rather  depends  on  what  you  call  safe, 
Mrs.  Hope. 

MRS.  HOPE.  I  don't  want  anything  extravagant, 
of  course;  if  they're  going  to  pay  their  10  per  cent, 
regularly,  and  Tom  can  have  his  money  out  at  any 
time —  [There  is  a  faint  whistle  from  the  swing.] 
I  only  want  to  know  that  it 's  a  thoroughly  genuine 
thing. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Indignantly.]  As  if  Maurice  would 
be  a  Director  if  it  was  n't? 

MRS.  HOPE.     Now  Molly,  I  'm  simply  asking 

MRS.  GWYN.     Yes,  you  are! 

COLONEL.  [Rising.]  I  '11  take  two  thousand  of 
those  shares,  Lever.  To  have  my  wife  talk  like  that 
— I  'm  quite  ashamed. 

LEVER.     Oh,  come,  sir,  Mrs.  Hope  only  meant 

[MRS.  GWYN  looks  eagerly  at  LEVER. 

DICK.     [Quietly]     Let 's  go  on  the  river,  Joy. 

[JoY  rises,  and  goes  to  her  Mother's  chair. 

MRS.   HOPE.      Of  course!      What  rubbish,   Tom! 


ACTH  Joy  127 

As  if  any  one  ever  invested  money  without  making 
sure! 

LEVER.  [Ironically.]  It  seems  a  little  difficult  to 
make  sure  in  this  case.  There  isn't  the  smallest 
necessity  for  Colonel  Hope  to  take  any  shares,  and  it 
looks  to  me  as  if  he  'd  better  not. 

[He  lights  a  cigarette. 

MRS.  HOPE.  Now,  Mr.  Lever,  don't  be  offended! 
I  'm  very  anxious  for  Tom  to  take  the  shares  if  you 
say  the  thing  's  so  good. 

LEVER.  I  'm  afraid  I  must  ask  to  be  left  out, 
please. 

JOY.  [Whispering.]  Mother,  if  you  Ve  finished, 
do  come,  I  want  to  show  you  my  room. 

MRS.  HOPE.  I  would  n't  say  a  word,  only  Tom  's 
so  easily  taken  in. 

MRS.  GWYN.      [Fiercely.]    Aunt  Nell,  how  can  you  ? 
[Joy  gives  a  little  savage  laugh. 
LETTY.     [Hastily.]    Ernie,  will  you  play  Dick  and 
me?     Come  on,  Dick! 

[All  three  go  out  towards  the  lawn. 
MRS.  HOPE.     You  ought  to  know  your  Uncle  by 
this  time,  Molly.     He  's  just  like  a  child.     He  'd  be  a 
pauper  to-morrow  if  I  did  n't  see  to  things. 

COLONEL.  Understand  once  for  all  that  I  shall 
take  two  thousand  shares  in  this  mine.  I  'm — I  'm 
humiliated.  [He  turns  and  goes  towards  the  house. 

MRS.  HOPE.     Well,  what  on  earth  have  I  said? 

[She  hurries  after  him. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [In  a  low  voice  as  she  passes.]  You 
need  n't  insult  my  friends ! 

[LEVER,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  has  strolled 
aside.  JOY,  with  a  passionate  movement  seen 
only  by  Miss  BEECH,  goes  off  towards  the 


128  Joy 


Acrn 


house.     Miss   BEECH   and  MRS.   GWYN   are 
left  alone  beside  the  remnants  of  the  feast.] 

Miss  BEECH.  Molly!  [MRS.  GWYN  looks  up 
startled.]  Take  care,  Molly,  take  care!  The  child! 
ran'2  you  see?  [Apostrophising  LEVER.]  Take  care, 
Molly,  take  care! 

LEVER.     [Coming  back.]     Awfully  hot,  isn't  it? 

Miss  BEECH.  Ah  !  and  it  '11  be  hotter  if  we  don't 
mind. 

LEVER.     [Suavely]     Do  we  control  these  things? 
[Miss  BEECH  looking  from  face  to  face,  nods  her 
head    repeatedly;    then    gathering    her    skirts 
she  walks  towards  the  house.     MRS.   GWYN 
sits  motionless,  staring  before  her.] 
Extraordinary  old  lady !     [He  pitches  away  his  cigar- 
ette]    What 's  the  matter  with  her,  Molly? 

MRS.  GWYN.  [With  an  effort.]  Oh  !  Peachey  's  a 
character ! 

LEVER.     [Frowning]    So  I  see!    [There  is  a  silence. 

MRS.  GWYN.     Maurice  ! 

LEVER.     Yes. 

MRS.  GWYN.  Aunt  Nell 's  hopeless,  you  must  n't 
mind  her. 

LEVER.  [In  a  dubious  and  ironic  voice.]  My  dear 
girl,  I  've  too  much  to  bother  me  to  mind  trifles  like 
that. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Going  to  him  suddenly]  Tell  me, 
won't  you  ?  [LEVER  shrugs  his  shoulders.] 

A  month  ago  you  'd  have  told  me  soon  enough! 

LEVER.     Now,  Molly! 

MRS.  GWYN.  Ah!  [With  a  bitter  smile]  The 
Spring  's  soon  over. 

LEVER.     It  "'s  always  Spring  between  us. 

MRS.  GWYN.     Is  it? 


ACT  II 


Joy  129 


LEVER.  You  did  n't  tell  me  what  you  were  think- 
ing about  just  now  when  you  sat  there  like  stone. 

MRS.  GWYN.  It  does  n't  do  for  a  woman  to  say  too 
much. 

LEVER.  Have  I  been  so  bad  to  you  that  you  need 
feel  like  that,  Molly? 

MRS.  GWYN.     [With  a  little  warm  squeeze  of  his 

arm.]    Oh  !  my  dear,  it 's  only  that  I  'm  so 

[She  stops. 

LEVER.     [Gently].     So  what? 

MRS.  GWYN.     [In  a  low  voice.]     It 's  hateful  here. 

LEVER.  I  did  n't  want  to  come.  I  don't  under- 
stand why  you  suggested  it.  [MRS.  GWYN  is  silent.] 
It 's  been  a  mistake. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.]  Joy 
comes  home  to-morrow.  I  thought  if  I  brought  you 
here — I  should  know • 

LEVER.     [Vexedly.]    Um! 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Losing  her  control.]  Can't  you  see  f 
It  haunts  me?  How  are  we  to  go  on?  I  must 
know — I  must  know! 

LEVER.     I  don't  see  that  my  coming 

MRS.  GWYN.  I  thought  I  should  have  more  con- 
fidence; I  thought  I  should  be  able  to  face  it  better 
in  London,  if  you  came  down  here  openly — and  now 
— I  feel  I  must  n't  speak  or  look  at  you. 

LEVER.     You  don't  think  your  Aunt 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Scornfully]  She!  It's  only  Joy 
I  care  about. 

LEVER.  [Frowning^  We  must  be  more  careful, 
that 's  all.  We  must  n't  give  ourselves  away  again, 
as  we  were  doing  just  now. 

MRS.  GWYN.  When  any  one  says  anything  horrid 
to  you,  I  can't  help  it 


130  Joy 


ACTH 


[She  puts  her  hand  on  the  lapel  of  his  coat. 
LEVER.     My  dear  child,  take  care! 

[MRS.  GWYN  drops  her  hand.  She  throws  her 
head  back,  and  her  throat  is  seen  to  work  as 
though  she  were  gulping  down  a  bitter  draught. 
She  moves  away.] 

[Following  hastily.]  Don't  dear,  don't!  I  only 
•meant —  Come,  Molly,  let 's  be  sensible.  I  want 
to  tell  you  something  about  the  mine. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [With  a  quavering  smile.]  Yes — 
let 's  talk  sensibly,  and  walk  properly  in  this  sensible, 
proper  place. 

[LEVER  is  seen  trying  to  soothe  her,  and  yet  to 
walk  properly.  As  they  disappear,  they  are 
viewed  by  JOY,  who,  like  the  shadow  parted 
from  its  figure,  has  come  to  join  it  again. 
She  stands  now,  foiled,  a  carnation  in  her 
hand;  then  flings  herself  on  a  chair,  and 
leans  her  elbows  on  the  table.] 
JOY.  I  hate  him!  Pig! 

ROSE.     [Who  has  come  to  clear  the  tea  things.]    Did 
you  call,  Miss? 
JOY.     Not  you! 
ROSE.     [Motionless]     No,  Miss! 
JOY.      [Leaning  back  and  tearing  the  flower.]     Oh! 
do  hurry  up,  Rose! 

ROSE.     [Collects  the  tea  things.]    Mr.  Dick's  coming 
down  the  path !      Are  n't  I  going  to  get  you  to  do 
your  frock,  Miss  Joy? 
JOY.     No. 

ROSE.    What  will  the  Missis  say? 
JOY.     Oh,  don't  be  so  stuck,  Rose! 

[RosE  goes,  but  DICK  has  come. 
DICK.     Come  on  the  river,  Joy,  just  for  half  an  hour, 


ACT  II 


Joy 


as  far  as  the  kingfishers — do !  QOY  shakes  her  head.] 
Why  not  ?  It  '11  be  so  jolly  and  cool.  I  'm  most 
awfully  sorry  if  I  worried  you  this  morning.  I  did  n't 
mean  to.  I  won't  again,  I  promise.  QOY  slides  a 
look  at  him,  and  from  that  look  he  gains  a  little  courage, ,] 
Do  come!  It  '11  be  the  last  time.  7  feel  it  awfully, 

Joy. 

JOY.     There  's  nothing  to  hurt  you! 

DICK.  [Gloomily.]  Isn't  there — when  you  're  like 
this  ? 

JOY.  [In  a  hard  voice.]  If  you  don't  like  me,  why 
do  you  follow  me  about? 

DICK.     What  is  the  matter? 

JOY.  [Looking  up,  as  if  for  want  of  air.]  Oh! 
Don't! 

DICK.  Oh,  Joy,  what  is  the  matter?  Is  it  the 
heat? 

JOY.     [With  a  little  laugh.]     Yes. 

DICK.  Have  some  Eau  de  Cologne.  I  '11  make  you 
a  bandage.  [He  takes  the  Eau  de  Cologne,  and  makes 
a  bandage  with  his  handkerchief.]  It  's  quite  clean. 

JOY.     Oh,  Dick,  you  are  so  funny! 

DICK.  [Bandaging  her  forehead]  I  can't  bear  you 
to  feel  bad ;  it  puts  me  off  completely.  I  mean  I  don't 
generally  make  a  fuss  about  people,  but  when  it 's 
you 

JOY.     [Suddenly]     I  'm  all  right. 

DICK.     Is  that  comfy? 

JOY.  [With  her  chin  up,  and  her  eyes  fast  closed.] 
Quite. 

DICK.  I  'm  not  going  to  stay  and  worry  you.  You 
ought  to  rest.  Only,  Joy!  Look  here!  If  you 
want  me  to  do  anything  for  you,  any  time 

JOY.     [Half  opening  her  eyes.]     Only  to  go  away. 


132  Joy 


ACT  II 


[DicK  bites  his  lips  and  walks  away.] 
Dick — [softly] — Dick!  [DicK  stops.]  I  did  n't  mean 
that;  will  you  get  me  some  water-irises  for  this 
evening? 

DICK.  Won't  I?  [He  goes  to  the  hollow  tree  and 
from  its  darkness  takes  a  bucket  and  a  boat-hook.]  I 
know  where  there  are  some  rippers! 

[JoY  stays  unmoving  with  her  eyes  half  closed] 

Are  you  sure  you  're  all  right.  Joy  ?     You  '11  just  rest 

here  in  the  shade,  won't  you,  till  I  come  back? — it  '11 

do  you  no  end  of  good.     I  shan't  be  twenty  minutes. 

[He  goes,  but  cannot  help  returning  softly,  to 

make  sure.] 
You  're  quite  sure  you  're  all  right  ? 

QOY  nods.  He  goes  away  towards  the  river. 
But  there  is  no  rest  for  JOY.  The  voices 
of  MRS.  GWYN  and  LEVER  are  heard  re- 
turning.] 

JOY.     [With  a  gesture  of  anger.]     Hateful!      Hate- 
ful! [She  runs  away. 
[MRS.  GWYN  and  LEVER  are  seen  approaching; 

they  pass  the  tree,  in  conversation.] 
MRS.  GWYN.     But  I  don't  see  why,  Maurice. 
LEVER.     We  mean  to  sell  the  mine;  we  must  do 
some  more  work  on  it,  and  for  that  we  must  have 
money. 

MRS.  GWYN.  If  you  only  want  a  little,  I  should 
have  thought  you  could  have  got  it  in  a  minute  in 
the  City. 

LEVER.  [Shaking  his  head.]  No,  no;  we  must  get 
it  privately.  * 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Doubtfully.]  Oh!  [She  slowly  adds.] 
Then  it  isn't  such  a  good  thing! 

[And  she  does  not  look  at  him. 


ACT  II 


Joy  133 


LEVER.     Well,  we  mean  to  sell  it. 

MRS.  GWYN.     What  about  the  people  who  buy? 

LEVER.  [Dubiously  regarding  her.]  My  dear  girl, 
they  've  just  as  much  chance  as  we  had.  It 's  not  my 
business  to  think  of  them.  There  's  your  thousand 
pounds 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Softly.]  Don't  bother  about  my 
money,  Maurice.  I  don't  want  you  to  do  anything 
not  quite 

LEVER.  [Evasively.]  Oh!  There  's  my  brother's 
and  my  sister's  too.  I  'm  not  going  to  let  any  of  you 
run  any  risk.  When  we  all  went  in  for  it  the  thing 
looked  splendid ;  it  's  only  the  last  month  that  we  've 
had  doubts.  What  bothers  me  now  is  your  Uncle. 
I  don't  want  him  to  take  these  shares.  It  looks  as 
if  I  'd  come  here  on  purpose. 

MRS.  GWYN.     Oh!  he  mustn't  take  them! 

LEVER.  That 's  all  very  well;  but  it 's  not  so 
simple. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Shyly.]  But,  Maurice,  have  you 
told  him  about  the  selling? 

LEVER.  [Gloomily,  under  the  hollow  tree.]  It  's  a 
Board  secret.  I  'd  no  business  to  tell  even  you. 

MRS.  GWYN.  But  he  thinks  he  's  taking  shares  in  a 
good — a  permanent  thing. 

LEVER.  You  can't  go  into  a  mining  venture  with- 
out some  risk. 

MRS.  GWYN.  Oh  yes,  I  know — but — but  Uncle 
Tom  is  such  a  dear! 

LEVER.  [Stubbornly.]  I  can't  help  his  being  the 
sort  of  man  he  is.  I  did  n't  want  him  to  take  these 
shares;  I  told  him  so  in  so  many  words.  Put  your- 
self in  my  place,  Molly:  how  can  I  go  to  him  and 
say,  "This  thing  may  turn  out  rotten,"  when 


*34  Joy 


ACT  ii 


he  knows  I  got   you    to    put  your  money  into  it? 

[But  JOY,  the  lost  shadow,  has  come  back.     She 

moves  forward  resolutely.     They  are  divided 

from  her  by  the  hollow  tree;  she  is  unseen. 

She  stops.] 

MRS.  GWYN.  I  think  he  ought  to  be  told  about  the 
selling;  it  's  not  fair. 

LEVER.  What  on  earth  made  him  rush  at  the 
thing  like  that?  I  don't  understand  that  kind  of 
man. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Impulsively.]  I  must  tell  him, 
Maurice;  I  can't  let  him  take  the  shares  without — 

[She  puts  her  hand  on  his  arm. 
UOY  turns,  as  if  to  go  back  whence  she  came,  but 

stops  once  more.} 

LEVER.  {Slowly  and  very  quietly.}  I  did  n't  think 
you  'd  give  me  away,  Molly. 

MRS.  GWYN.     I  don't  think  I  quite  understand. 
LEVER.     If  you  tell  the  Colonel  about  this  sale 
the  poor  old  chap  will  think  me  a  man  that  you 
ought  to  have  nothing  to  do  with.     Do  you  want 
that? 

[MRS.  GWYN,  giving  her  lover  a  long  look, 
touches  his  sleeve.  JOY,  slipping  behind  the 
hollow  tree,  has  gone.} 

You  can't  act  in  a  case  like  this  as  if  you  'd  only  a 
principle  to  consider.  It  's  the — the  special  circum- 
stances  

MRS.  GWYN.  [With  a  faint  smile]  But  you  '11  be 
glad  to  get  the  money  won't  you? 

LEVER.  By  George!  if  you  're  going  to  take  it  like 
this,  Molly — 

MRS.  GWYN.     Don't! 


ACT  II 


Joy  135 


LEVER.  We  may  not  sell  after  all,  dear,  we  may 
find  it  turn  out  trumps. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [With  a  shiver.]  I  don't  want  to 
hear  any  more.  I  know  women  don't  understand. 
[Impulsively.]  It  's  only  that  I  can't  bear  any  one 

should  think  that  you 

LEVER.  [Distressed.]  For  goodness  sake  don't 
look  like  that,  Molly!  Of  course,  I  '11  speak  to  your 
Uncle.  I  '11  stop  him  somehow,  even  if  I  have  to 

make  a  fool  of  myself.  I  '11  do  anything  you  want 

MRS.  GWYN.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  being  smothered 
here. 

LEVER.     It  's  only  for  one  day. 
MRS.  GWYN.     [With  sudden  tenderness.]     It 's  not 
your  fault,  dear.     I  ought  to  have  known  how  it 
would  be.     Well,  let  's  go  in! 

[She  sets  her  lips,  and  walks  towards  the  house 
with  LEVER  following.  But  no  sooner  has 
she  disappeared  than  JOY  comes  running 
after;  she  stops,  as  though  throwing  down  a 
challenge.  Her  cheeks  and  ears  are  burning.] 
JOY.  Mother! 

[After  a  moment  MRS.  GWYN  reappears  in  the 

opening  of  the  wall.] 
MRS.  GWYN.     Oh  !  here  you  are! 
JOY.     [Breathlessly.]     Yes. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Uncertainly.]  Where — have  you 
been  ?  You  look  dreadfully  hot ;  have  you  been  run- 
ning? 

JOY.     Yes — no. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Looking  at  her  fixedly.]  What 's  the 
matter — you're  trembling!  [Softly.]  Aren't  you 
well,  dear? 

JOY.     Yes — I  don't  know. 


136  Joy 


ACT  II 


MRS.  GWYN.     What  is  it,  darling? 

JOY.     [Suddenly  clinging  to  her.]    Oh!  Mother! 

MRS.  GWYN.     I  don't  understand. 

JOY.  [Breathlessly.]  Oh,  Mother,  let  me  go  back 
home  with  you  now  at  once 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Her  face  hardening.]  Why?  What 
on  earth 

JOY.     I  can't  stay  here. 

MRS.  GWYN.     But  why? 

JOY.  I  want  to  be  with  you — Oh!  Mother,  don't 
you  love  me? 

MRS.  GWYN.  [With  a  faint  smile.]  Of  course  I  love 
you,  Joy. 

JOY.     Ah!  but  you  love  him  more. 

MRS.  GWYN.     Love  him — whom? 

JOY.     Oh !    Mother,  I  did  n't [She  tries  to  take 

her  Mother's  hand,  but  fails.]     Oh!  don't. 

MRS.  GWYN.  You  'd  better  explain  what  you 
mean,  I  think. 

JOY.  I  want  to  get  you  to — he — he  's — he  's — 
not ! 

MRS.  GWYN.     [Frigidly.]     Really,  Joy! 

JOY.     [Passionately.]     I  '11  fight  against  him,  and  I 

know  there  's  something  wrong  about 

[She  stops. 

MRS.  GWYN.     About  what? 

JOY.     Let  's  tell  Uncle  Tom,  Mother,  and  go  away. 

MRS.  GWYN.     Tell  Uncle  Tom — what? 

JOY.  [Looking  down  and  almost  whispering.]  About 
— about — the  mine. 

MRS.  GWYN.  What  about  the  mine?  What  do 
you  mean?  [Fiercely.]  Have  you  been  spying  on 
me? 

JOY.     [Shrinking.]     No!  oh,  no! 


ACT  II 


Joy  137 


MRS.  GWYN.     Where  were  you? 

JOY.  [Just  above  her  breath.}  I — I  heard  some- 
thing. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Bitterly.]  But  you  were  not  spy- 
ing? 

JOY.  I  wasn't — I  wasn't!  I  didn't  want — to 
hear.  I  only  heard  a  little.  I  could  n't  help  listen- 
ing, Mother. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [With  a  little  laugh.]  Could  n't  help 
listening? 

JOY.  [Through  her  teeth.]  I  hate  him.  I  did  n't 
mean  to  listen,  but  I  hate  him. 

MRS.  GWYN.  I  see.  [There  is  a  silence.] 

Why  do  you  hate  him? 

JOY.     He — he [She   stops. 

MRS.  GWYN.     Yes? 

JOY.  [With  a  sort  of  despair]  I  don't  know.  Oh ! 
I  don't  know!  But  I  feel 

MRS.  GWYN.  I  can't  reason  with  you.  As  to  what 
you  heard,  it  's — ridiculous. 

JOY.     It  's  not  that.     It  's — it  's  you! 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Stonily]  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean. 

JOY.     [Passionately]    I  wish  Dad  were  here! 

MRS.  GWYN.  Do  you  love  your  Father  as  much 
as  me? 

JOY.     Oh!  Mother,  no — you  know  I  don't. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Resentfully]  Then  why  do  you 
want  him? 

JOY.  [Almost  under  her  breath]  Because  of  that  man. 

MRS.  GWYN.     Indeed! 

JOY.     I  will  never — never  make  friends  with  him. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Cuttingly]  I  have  not  asked  you 
to. 


138  Joy 


ACT  II 


JOY.  [With  a  blind  movement  of  her  hand.}  Oh, 
Mother  !  [MRS.  GWYN  half  turns  away.] 

Mother — won't  you?      Let 's  tell  Uncle  Tom  and  go 
away  from  him? 

MRS.  GWYN.  If  you  were  not  a  child,  Joy,  you 
would  n't  say  such  things. 

JOY.  [Eagerly.]  I  'm  not  a  child,  I  'm — I  'm  a 
Woman.  I  am. 

MRS.  GWYN.      No!     You — are — not  a  woman,  Joy. 

[She  sees  JOY   throw  up  her  arms  as  though 

warding  off  a  blow,   and  turning  finds  that 

LEVER  is  standing  in  the  opening  of  the  wall.] 

LEVER.  [Looking  from  face  to  face.]  What 's  the 
matter  ?  [There  is  no  answer.]  What  is  it,  Joy? 

JOY.  [Passionately.]  I  heard  you,  I  don't  care 
who  knows.  I  'd  listen  again. 

LEVER.  [Impassively.]  Ah!  and  what  did  I  say 
that  was  so  very  dreadful? 

JOY.     You  're  a — a — you  're  a — coward ! 

MRS.  GWYN.     [With  a  sort  of  groan.]    Joy! 

LEVER.  [Stepping  up  to  JOY,  and  standing  with  his 
hands  behind  him — in  a  low  voice.]  Now  hit  me  in  the 
face — hit  me — hit  me  as  hard  as  you  can.  Go  on, 
Joy,  it  '11  do  you  good. 

QOY  raises  her  clenched  hand,  but  drops  it,  and 

hides  her  face.] 
Why  don't  you?     I 'm  not  pretending! 

QOY   makes  no  sign.] 

Come,  Joy;  you  '11  make  yourself  ill,  and  that  won't 
help,  will  it  ?  [But  JOY  still  makes  no  sign.] 

[With    determination.]    What 's    the     matter?    now 
come — tell  me! 

JOY.  [In  a  stifled,  sullen  voice.]  Will  you  leave  my 
mother  alone  ? 


ACT  II 


Joy  139 


MRS.  GWYN.     Oh!  my  dear  Joy,  don't  be  silly! 
JOY.     [Wincing;  then  with  sudden  passion.]     I  defy 
you — I  defy  you!  [She  rushes  from  their  sight. 

MRS.  GWYN.     [With  a  movement  of  distress.]      Oh! 
LEVER.     [Turning  to  MRS.  GWYN  with  a  protecting 
gesture.}     Never  mind,  dear!      It  '11  be — it  '11  be  all 
right! 

[But  the  expression  of  his  face  is  not  the  ex- 
pression of  his  words.] 

The  curtain  falls. 


ACT  III 

It  is  evening;  a  full  yellow  moon  is  shining  through 
the  branches  of  the  hollow  tree.  The  Chinese 
lanterns  are  alight.  There  is  dancing  in  the  house; 
the  music  sounds  now  loud,  now  soft.  Miss  BEECH 
is  sitting  on  the  rustic  seat  in  a  black  bunchy  evening 
dress,  whose  inconspicuous  opening  is  inlaid  with 
white.  She  slowly  fans  herself. 

DICK  comes  from  the  house  in  evening  dress.  He  does 
not  see  Miss  BEECH. 

DICK.     Curse!    [A  short  silence.]     Curse! 

Miss  BEECH.     Poor  young  man ! 

DICK.  [With  a  start.]  Well,  Peachey,  I  can't  help 
it.  [He  fumbles  off  his  gloves. 

Miss  BEECH.  Did  you  ever  know  any  one  that 
could? 

DICK.  [Earnestly.}  It 's  such  awfully  hard  lines 
on  Joy.  I  can't  get  her  out  of  my  head,  lying  there 
with  that  beastly  headache  while  everybody  's  jigging 
round. 

Miss  BEECH.  Oh!  you  don't  mind  about  yourself 
— noble  young  man! 

DICK.  I  should  be  a  brute  if  I  did  n't  mind  more 
for  her. 

Miss  BEECH.  So  you  think  it 's  a  headache,  do 
you? 

DICK.  Did  n't  you  hear  what  Mrs.  Gwyn  said  at 
140 


ACTIII 


Joy  141 


dinner  about  the  sun?  [With  inspiration.]  I  say, 
Peachey,  could  n't  you — could  n't  you  just  go  up  and 
give  her  a  message  from  me,  and  find  out  if  there  's 
anything  she  wants,  and  say  how  brutal  it  is  that 
she  's  seedy ;  it  would  be  most  awfully  decent  of  you. 
And  tell  her  the  dancing  's  no  good  without  her. 
Do,  Peachey,  now  do !  Ah !  and  look  here ! 

[He  dives  into  the  hollow  of  the  tree,  and  brings 
from  out  of  it  a  pail  of  water   in  which  are 
placed  two  bottles  of  champagne,  and  some 
yellow  irises — he  takes  the  irises.} 
You  might  give  her  these.     I  got  them  specially  for 
her,  and  I  have  n't  had  a  chance. 

Miss  BEECH.     [Lifting  a  bottle.]     What 's  this? 

DICK.  Fizz.  The  Colonel  brought  it  from  the 
George.  It  's  for  supper;  he  put  it  in  here  because 
of — [Smiling  faintly]  Mrs.  Hope,  I  think.  Peachey, 
do  take  her  those  irises. 

Miss  BEECH.    D'  you  think  they  '11  do  her  anygood  ? 

DICK.  {Crestfallen.]  I  thought  she  'd  like — I 
don't  want  to  worry  her — you  might  try. 

[Miss  BEECH  shakes  her  head] 
Why  not? 

Miss  BEECH.  The  poor  little  creature  won't  let  me 
in. 

DICK.     You  've  been  up  then! 

Miss  BEECH.  [Sharply]  Of  course  I  've  been  up. 
I  've  not  got  a  stone  for  my  heart,  young  man! 

DICK.  All  right!  I  suppose  I  shall  just  have  to 
get  along  somehow. 

Miss  BEECH.  [With  devilry.]  That 's  what  we've 
all  got  to  do. 

DICK.  [Gloomily.]  But  this  is  too  brutal  for  any- 
thing! 


Joy 


ACT  in 


Miss  BEECH.  Worse  than  ever  happened  to  any 
one! 

DICK.     I  swear  I  'm  not  thinking  of  myself. 

Miss  BEECH.  Did  y'  ever  know  anybody  that 
swore  they  were? 

DICK.     Oh!  shut  up! 

Miss  BEECH.  You  'd  better  go  in  and  get  yourself 
a  partner. 

DICK.  [With  pale  desperation.]  Look  here,  Peachey, 
I  simply  loathe  all  those  girls. 

Miss  BEECH.  Ah — h!  [Ironically.]  Poor  lot, 
are  n't  they? 

DICK.  All  right;  chaff  away,  it's  good  fun,  isn't 
it?  It  makes  me  sick  to  dance  when  Joy  's  lying 
there.  Her  last  night,  too ! 

Miss  BEECH.  [Sidling  to  him.]  You  're  a  good 
young  man,  and  you  've  got  a  good  heart. 

[She  takes  his  hand,  and  puts  it  to  her  cheek. 

DICK.  Peachey — I  say,  Peachey — d'  you  think 
there  's — I  mean  d'  you  think  there  '11  ever  be  any 
chance  for  me? 

Miss  BEECH.  I  thought  that  was  coming!  I  don't 
approve  of  your  making  love  at  your  time  of  life; 
don't  you  think  I  'm  going  to  encourage  you. 

DICK.  But  I  shall  be  of  age  in  a  year;  my  money  's 
my  own,  it  's  not  as  if  I  had  to  ask  any  one's  leave; 
and  I  mean,  I  do  know  my  own  mind. 

Miss  BEECH.  Of  course  you  do.  Nobody  else 
would  at  your  age,  but  you  do. 

DICK.  I  would  n't  ask  her  to  promise,  it  would  n't 
be  fair  when  she  's  so  young,  but  I  do  want  her  to 
know  that  I  shall  never  change. 

Miss  BEECH.  And  suppose — only  suppose — she  's 
fond  of  you,  and  says  she  'II  never  change. 


ACT  III 


Joy  143 


DICK.     Oh!     Peachey!      D'  you   think   there 's   a 
chance  of  that — do  you? 
Miss  BEECH.     A — h — h! 

DICK.  I  would  n't  let  her  bind  herself,  I  swear  I 
would  n't.  [Solemnly.]  I  'm  not  such  a  selfish  brute 
as  you  seem  to  think. 

Miss  BEECH.  [Sidling  close  to  him  and  in  a  violent 
whisper.]  Well — have  a  go! 

DICK.     Really?     You  are  a  brick,  Peachey! 

[He  kisses  her. 

Miss  BEACH.  [Yielding  pleasurably;  then  remem- 
bering her  principles.]  Don't  you  ever  say  I  said  so ! 
You  're  too  young,  both  of  you. 

DICK.  But  it  is  exceptional — I  mean  in  my  case, 
is  n't  it? 

[The  COLONEL  andM.RS.  GWYN  are  coming  down 

the  lawn] 
Miss  BEECH.     Oh!  very! 

[She  sits  beneath  the  tree  and  fans  herself. 
COLONEL.     The   girls   are   all   sitting     out,    Dick! 
I  've  been  obliged  to  dance  myself.     Phew! 

[He  mops  his  brow.] 
[DicK  swinging  round  goes  rushing  off  towards 

the  house.] 

[Looking    after   him.]     Hallo !      What 's   the    matter 
with     him?      Cooling    your    heels,     Peachey?      By 
George  !  it 's  hot.     Fancy  the  poor  devils  in  London 
on  a  night  like  this,  what?     [He  sees  the  moon.]      It's 
a  full  moon.     You  're  lucky  to  be  down  here,  Molly. 
MRS.  GWYN.     [In  a  low  voice.]    Very! 
Miss  BEECH.     Oh !  so  you  think  she  's  lucky,  do  you? 
COLONEL.      [Expanding    his   nostrils.]       Delicious 
scent  to-night!     Hay  and  roses — delicious. 

[He  seats  himself  between  them.] 


144  Joy 


ACT  III 


A  shame  that  poor  child  has  knocked  up  like  this. 
Don't  think  it  was  the  sun  myself — more  likely  neu- 
ralgic— she  's  subject  to  neuralgia,  Molly. 

MRS.  GWYN.     [Motionless.]     I  know. 

COLONEL.  Got  too  excited  about  your  coming.  I 
told  Nell  not  to  keep  worrying  her  about  her  frock, 
and  this  is  the  result.  But  your  Aunt — you  know — 
she  can't  let  a  thing  alone! 

Miss  BEECH.     Ah!  'tis  n't  neuralgia. 

[MRS.  GWYN  looks  at  her  quickly  and  averts  her 
eyes.] 

COLONEL.  Excitable  little  thing.  You  don't  un- 
derstand her,  Peachey. 

Miss  BEECH.     Don't  I? 

COLONEL.  She  's  all  affection.  Eh,  Molly?  I  re- 
member what  I  was  like  at  her  age,  a  poor  affectionate 
little  rat,  and  now  look  at  me ! 

Miss  BEECH.     [Fanning  herself.]     I  see  you.  - 

COLONEL.  [A  little  sadly.]  We  forget  what  we 
were  like  when  we  were  young.  She  's  been  looking 
forward  to  to-night  ever  since  you  wrote;  and  now 
to  have  to  go  to  bed  and  miss  the  dancing.  Too 
bad! 

MRS.  GWYN.     Don't,  Uncle  Tom! 

COLONEL.  [Patting  her  hand.]  There,  there,  old 
girl,  don't  think  about  it.  She  '11  be  all  right  to- 
morrow. 

Miss  BEECH.  If  I  were  her  mother  I  'd  soon  have 
her  up. 

COLONEL.  Have  her  up  with  that  headache! 
What  are  you  talking  about,  Peachey? 

Miss  BEECH.     7  know  a  remedy. 

COLONEL.     Well,  out  with  it. 

Miss  BEECH.     Oh  !  Molly  knows  it  too! 


ACT  III 


Joy  145 


MRS.  GWYN.  [Staring  at  the  ground.]  It 's  easy  to 
advise. 

COLONEL.  [Fidgetting.]  Well,  if  you're  thinking 
of  morphia  for  her,  don't  have  anything  to  do  with  it. 
I  've  always  set  my  face  against  morphia;  the  only 
time  I  took  it  was  in  Burmah.  I  'd  raging  neuralgia 
for  two  days.  I  went  to  our  old  doctor,  and  I  made 
him  give  me  some.  "Look  here,  doctor,"  I  said, 
"I  hate  the  idea  of  morphia,  I  've  never  taken  it, 
and  I  never  want  to." 

Miss  BEECH.  [Looking  at  MRS.  GWYN.]  When  a 
tooth  hurts,  you  should  have  it  out.  It  's  only  puttin' 
off  the  evil  day. 

COLONEL.  You  say  that  because  it  was  n't  your 
own. 

Miss  BEECH.  Well,  it  was  hollow,  and  you  broke 
your  principles! 

COLONEL.  Hollow  yourself,  Peachey ;  you  're  as 
bad  as  any  one ! 

Miss  BEECH  [With  devilry.]  Well,  I  know  that! 
[She  turns  to  MRS.  GWYN.]  He  should  have  had  it 
out  !  Should  n't  he,  Molly  ? 

MRS.  GWYN.     I — don't — judge  for  other  people. 
[She  gets  up  suddenly,  as  though  deprived  of 
air.] 

COLONEL.  [Alarmed.]  Hallo,  Molly!  Are  n't  you 
feeling  the  thing,  old  girl? 

Miss  BEECH.     Let  her  get  some  air,  poor  creature! 

COLONEL.  [Who  follows  anxiously.]  Your  Aunt 's 
got  some  first-rate  sal  volatile. 

MRS.  GWYN.  It 's  all  right,  Uncle  Tom.  I  felt 
giddy,  it 's  nothing,  now. 

COLONEL.  That 's  the  dancing.  [He  taps  his  fore- 
head.] I  know  what  it  is  when  you  're  not  used  to  it. 


146  Joy 


ACT  III 


MRS.  GWYN.  [With  a  sudden  bitter  outburst]  I  sup- 
pose you  think  I  'm  a  very  bad  mother  to  be  amusing 
myself  while  Joy  's  suffering. 

COLONEL.  My  dear  girl,  whatever  put  such  a 
thought  into  your  head?  We  all  know  if  there  were 
anything  you  could  do,  you  'd  do  it  at  once,  would  n't 
she,  Peachey? 

[Miss  BEECH  turns  a  slow  look  on  MRS.  GWYN. 

MRS.  GWYN.  Ah  !  you  see,  Peachey  knows  me 
better. 

COLONEL.  [Following  up  his  thoughts.']  I  always 
think  women  are  wonderful.  There  's  your  Aunt, 
she  's  very  funny,  but  if  there  's  anything  the  matter 
with  me,  she  '11  sit  up  all  night ;  but  when  she  's  ill  her- 
self, and  you  try  to  do  anything  for  her,  out  she  raps 
at  once. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [In  a  low  voice]  There 's  always  one 
that  a  woman  will  do  anything  for. 

COLONEL.  Exactly  what  I  say.  With  your  Aunt 
it  's  me,  and  by  George !  Molly,  sometimes  I  wish  it 
was  n't. 

Miss  BEECH.  [With  meaning.]  But  is  it  ever  for 
another  woman! 

COLONEL.  You  old  cynic!  D' you  mean  to  say 
Joy  would  n't  do  anything  on  earth  for  her  Mother, 
or  Molly  for  Joy?  You  don't  know  human  nature. 
What  a  wonderful  night !  Have  n't  seen  such  a  moon 
for  years,  she  's  like  a  great,  great  lamp! 

[MRS.  GWYN  hiding  from  Miss  BEECH'S  eyes, 

rises   and  slips   her   arm   through   his;   they 

stand  together  looking  at  the  moon.] 

Don't  like  these  Chinese  lanterns,  with  that  moon — • 

tawdry!  eh!      By  Jove,  Molly,  I  sometimes  think  we 

humans  are  a  rubbishy  lot — each  of  us  talking  and 


ACT  III 


Joy  147 


thinking  of  nothing  but  our  own  petty  little  affairs; 
and  when  you  see  a  great  thing  like  that  up  there 
— [Sighs.]  But  there  's  your  Aunt,  if  I  were  to 
say  a  thing  like  that  to  her  she  'd — she  'd  think  me 
a  lunatic ;  and  yet,  you  know,  she  's  a  very  good 
woman. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [Half  clinging  to  him.]  Do  you  think 
me  very  selfish,  Uncle  Tom? 

COLONEL.  My  dear — what  a  fancy!  Think  you 
selfish — of  course  I  don't;  why  should  I? 

MRS.  GWYN.     [Dully.]    I  don't  know. 

COLONEL.  [Changing  the  subject  nervously.]  I  like 
your  friend,  Lever,  Molly.  He  came  to  me  before 
dinner  quite  distressed  about  your  Aunt,  beggin'  me 
not  to  take  those  shares.  She  11  be  the  first  to  worry 
me,  but  he  made  such  a  point  of  it,  poor  chap — in 
the  end  I  was  obliged  to  say  I  would  n't.  I  thought 
it  showed  very  nice  feeling.  [Ruefully.]  It 's  a 
pretty  tight  fit  to  make  two  ends  meet  on  my  income 
• — I  've  missed  a  good  thing,  all  owing  to  your  Aunt. 
[Dropping  his  voice]  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  Molly, 
I  think  they  've  got  a  much  finer  mine  there  than 
they  've  any  idea  of. 

[MRS.  GWYN  gives  way  to  laughter  that  is  very 

near  to  sobs.] 

[With  dignity.]  I  can't  see  what  there  is  to  laugh 
at. 

MRS.  GWYN.  I  don't  know  what 's  the  matter  with 
me  this  evening. 

Miss  BEECH.     [In  a  low  voice.]     I  do. 

COLONEL.  There,  there!  Give  me  a  kiss,  old  girl! 
[He  kisses  her  on  the  brow.]  Why,  your  forehead  's 
as  hot  as  fire.  I  know — I  know — you  're  fretting 
about  Joy.  Never  mind — come!  [He  draws  her 


148  Joy 


ACT  HI 


hand  beneath  his  arm.]  Let 's  go  and  have  a  look  at 
the  moon  on  the  river.  We  all  get  upset  at  times ;  eh ! 
[Lifting  his  hand  as  if  he  had  been  stung.]  Why,  you  're 
not  crying,  Molly!  I  say!  Don't  do  that,  old  girl, 
it  makes  me  wretched.  Look  here,  Peachey.  [Hold- 
ing out  the  hand  on  which  the  tear  has  dropped.]  This 
is  dreadful ! 

MRS.  GWYN.  [With  a  violent  effort.]  It 's  all  right, 
Uncle  Tom! 

[Miss  BEECH  wipes  her  own  eyes  stealthily. 
From  the  house  is  heard  the  voice  of  MRS. 
HOPE,  calling  "ToM."] 

Miss  BEECH.     Some  one  calling  you. 

COLONEL.  There,  there,  my  dear,  you  just  stay 
here,  and  cool  yourself — I  '11  come  back — shan't  be  a 
minute.  [He  turns  to  go.] 

[MRS.  HOPE'S  voice  sounds  nearer.] 
[Turning  back.]  And  Molly,  old  girl,  don't  you  mind 
anything  I  said.  I  don't  remember  what  it  was — it 
must  have  been  something,  I  suppose. 

[He  hastily  retreats. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [In  a  fierce  low  voice.]  Why  do  you 
torture  me? 

Miss  BEECH.  [Sadly.}  I  don't  want  to  torture 
you. 

MRS.  GWYN.  But  you  do.  D'  you  think  I  have  n't 
seen  this  coming — all  these  weeks.  I  knew  she 
must  find  out  some  time !  But  even  a  day  counts 

Miss  BEECH.  I  don't  understand  why  you  brought 
him  down  here. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [After  staring  at  her,  bitterly.}  When 
day  after  day  and  night  after  night  you  've  thought 
of  nothing  but  how  to  keep  them  both,  you  might  a 
little  want  to  prove  that  it  was  possible,  might  n  't 


ACT  in 


Joy 


149 


you?       But    you  don't     understand — how     should 
you?     You  've  never  been  a  mother!    [And  fiercely.] 

You  've  never  had  a  lov 

[Miss  BEECH  raises  her  face — it  is  all  puckered.] 
[Impulsively.]    Oh,  I  did  n't  mean  that,  Peachey! 

Miss  BEECH.     All  right,  my  dear. 

MRS.  GWYN.      I  'm  so  dragged  in  two!    [She  sinks 
into  a  chair.]    1  knew  it  must  come. 

Miss  BEECH.     Does  she  know  everything,  Molly? 

MRS.  GWYN.     She  guesses. 

Miss  BEECH.     [Mournfully.]    It 's  either  him  or  her 
then,  my  dear ;  one  or  the  other  you  '11  have  to  give  up. 

MRS.   GWYN.     [Motionless]    Life  's  very  hard  on 
women ! 

Miss  BEECH. 
child,  Molly. 

MRS.  GWYN. 

Miss  BEECH. 

MRS.  GWYN. 

Miss  BEECH. 
Poor  things  ! 

MRS.  GWYN. 

Miss  BEECH. 

MRS.  GWYN. 


Miss  BEECH. 


Life  's  only  just  beginning  for  that 

You  don't  care  if  it  ends  for  me  I 
Is  it  as  bad  as  that? 
Yes. 
[Rocking  her  body.]      Poor  things! 

Are  you  still  fond  of  me? 

Yes,  yes,  my  dear,  of  course  I  am. 

In  spite  of  my— wickedness? 

[She  laughs. 
Who  am  I  to  tell  what 's  wicked  and 


what  is  n't?      God  knows  you  're  both  like  daughters 
to  me! 

MRS.  GWYN. 

Miss  BEECH. 

MRS.  GWYN. 

Miss  BEECH. 
dear,  I  would, 
hate  it. 


[Abruptly]    I  can't. 
Molly. 

You  don't  know  what  you  're  asking. 

If  I  could  save  you  suffering,  my 

I  hate  suffering,  if  it 's  only  a  fly,  I 


150  Joy 


ACT  III 


MRS.  GWYN.     [Turning  away  from  her.]     Life  is  n't 
fair.     Peachey,  go  in  and  leave  me  alone. 

[She  leans  back  motionless.] 
[Miss  BEECH  gets  off  her  seat,  and  stroking 
MRS.  GWYN'S  arm  in  passing  goes  silently 
away.  In  the  opening  of  the  wall  she  meets 
LEVER  who  is  looking  for  his  partner.  They 
make  way  for  each  other.] 

LEVER.     [Going  up  to  MRS.  GWYN — gravely.]    The 
next  is  our  dance,  Molly. 

MRS.  GWYN.     [Unmoving.]    Let 's  sit  it  out  here, 
then.  [LEVER  sits  down. 

LEVER.     I  've  made  it  all  right  with  your  Uncle. 
MRS.  GWYN.     [Dully.]    Oh? 

LEVER.     I  spoke  to  him  about  the  shares  before 
dinner. 

MRS.  GWYN.     Yes,  he  told  me,  thank  you. 
LEVER.     There  's  nothing  to  worry  over,  dear. 
MRS.  GWYN.     [Passionately.]    What  does  it  matter 
about  the  wretched  shares  now  ?     I  'm  stifling. 

[She  throws  her  scarf  off. 

LEVER.     I  don't  understand  what  you  mean  by 
"now." 

MRS.  GWYN.     Don't  you? 

LEVER.     We  were  n't — Joy  can't  know — why  should 

she  ?     I  don't  believe  for  a  minute 

MRS.  GWYN.     Because  you  don't  want  to. 
LEVER.     Do  you  mean  she  does? 
MRS.  GWYN.     Her  heart  knows. 

[LEVER  makes  a  movement  of  discomfiture;  sud- 
denly MRS.  GWYN  looks  at  him  as  though  to 
read  his  soul.] 

I  seem  to  bring  you  nothing  but  worry,  Maurice. 
Are  you  tired  of  me  ? 


ACT  III 


Joy  151 


LEVER.     [Meeting  her  eyes.]    No,  I  am  not. 
MRS.  GWYN.     Ah,  but  would  you  tell  me  if  you 
were? 

LEVER.     [Softly.]    Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the 
evil  thereof. 

[MRS.  GWYN  struggles  to  look  at  him,  then  covers 

her  face  with  her  hands.] 

MRS.  GWYN.     If  I  were  to  give  you  up,  you  'd  for- 
get me  in  a  month. 

LEVER.     Why  do  you  say  such  things? 
MRS.  GWYN.     If  only  I  could  believe  I  was  neces- 
sary to  you! 

LEVER.     [Forcing  the  fervour  of  his  voice.]    But  you 
are  ! 

MRS.  GWYN.      Am  I?     [With  the  ghost  of  a  smile.] 
Midsummer  day! 

[She  gives  a  laugh  that  breaks  into  a  sob. 
[The  music  of  a  waltz  sounds  from  the  house. 
LEVER.     For  God's  sake,   don't,   Molly — I   don't 
believe  in  going  to  meet  trouble. 

MRS.  GWYN.     It 's  staring  me  in  the  face. 
LEVER.     Let  the  future  take  care  of  itself! 

[MRS.  GWYN  has  turned  away  her  face,  cover- 
ing it  with  her  hands.] 

Don't,  Molly!  [Trying  to  pull  her  hands  away.] 
Don't! 

MRS.  GWYN.     Oh!  what  shall  I  do? 

[There  is  a  silence;  the  music  of  the  waltz  sounds 

louder  from  the  house.] 

[Starting  up.]  Listen!  One  can't  sit  it  out  and 
dance  it  too.  Which  is  it  to  be,  Maurice,  dancing — 
or  sitting  out?  It  must  be  one  or  the  other,  must  n't 
it? 

LEVER.     Molly !     Molly ! 


152  Joy 


ACT  in 


MRS.  GWYN.  Ah,  my  dear!  [Standing  away  from 
him  as  though  to  show  herself.]  How  long  shall  I  keep 
you?  This  is  all  that's  left  of  me.  It's  time  I 
joined  the  wallflowers.  [Smiling  faintly.]  It 's  time 
I  played  the  mother,  is  n't  it  ?  [In  a  whisper.]  It  '11 
be  all  sitting  out  then. 

LEVER.  Don't !  Let 's  go  and  dance,  it  '11  do  you 
good. 

[He  puts  his  hands  on  her  arms,  and  in  a  gust 

of  passion  kisses  her  lips  and  throat.] 
MRS.  GWYN.     I  can't  give  you  up — I  can't.     Love 
me,  oh!  love  me! 

[For  a  moment  they  stand  so;  then,  with  sudden 
remembrance  of  where  they  are,  they  move 
apart.} 

LEVER.     Are  you  all  right  now,  darling? 
MRS.  GWYN.     [Trying  to  smile.]     Yes,  dear — quite. 
LEVER.     Then  let 's  go,  and  dance.          [They  go. 
[For  a  few  seconds  the  hollow  tree  stands  alone; 
then  from  the  house  ROSE  comes  and  enters 
it.    She   takes   out   a   bottle   of   champagne, 
wipes   it,   and  carries  it  away;  but  seeing 
MRS.   GWYN'S  scarf  lying  across  the  chair, 
she  fingers   it,    and  stops,    listening   to    the 
waltz.      Suddenly     draping    it    round     her 
shoulders,  she  seizes  the  bottle  of  champagne, 
and  waltzes  with  abandon  to  the  music,  as 
though    avenging    a   long   starvation   of   her 
instincts.     Thus  dancing,  she  is  surprised  by 
DICK,  who  has  come  to  smoke  a  cigarette  and 
think,  at  the  spot  where  he  was  told  to  "  have  a 
go."     ROSE,  startled,  stops  and  hugs  the  bot- 
tle.} 
DICK.     It 's  not  claret,  Rose,  I  should  n't  warm  it. 


ACT  III 


Joy  153 


[RosE,  taking  off  the  scarf,  replaces  it  on  the 
chair;  then  with  the  half-warmed  bottle,  she 
retreats.  DICK,  in  the  swing,  sits  thinking  of 
his  fate.  Suddenly  from  behind  the  hollow 
tree  he  sees  JOY  darting  forward  in  her  day 
dress  with  her  hair  about  her  neck,  and  her 
skirt  all  torn.  As  "he  springs  towards  her, 
she  turns  at  bay.] 
DICK.  Joy! 

JOY.     I  want  Uncle  Tom. 

DICK.  [In  consternation.]  But  ought  you  to  have 
got  up — I  thought  you  were  ill  in  bed ;  ought  n't  you 
to  be  lying  down? 

JOY.     I|have  n't  been  in  bed.     Where  's  Uncle  Tom  ? 

DICK.     But  where  have  you  been? — your  dress  is 

all  torn.      Look!  [He   touches   the  torn  skirt. 

JOY.     [Tearing  it  away.]     In  the  fields.     Where  's 

Uncle  Tom? 

DICK.     Are  n't  you  really  ill  then  ? 

QOY  shakes  her  head.     DICK,  showing  her  the 

irises.] 

Look  at  these.     They  were  the  best  I  could  get. 
JOY.     Don't!     I  want  Uncle  Tom! 
DICK.     Won't  you  take  them? 
JOY.     I  've  got  something  else  to  do. 
DICK.     [With   sudden   resolution.]    What   do   you 
want  the  Colonel  for? 
JOY.     I  want  him. 
DICK.     Alone? 
JOY.     Yes. 

DICK.     Joy,  what  is  the  matter? 
JOY.     I  've  got  something  to  tell  him. 
DICK.     What?    [With  sudden  inspiration.]      Is  it 
about  Lever? 

t 


Joy 


ACT  111 


JOY.     [In  a  low  voice.]    The  mine. 

DICK.     The  mine? 

JOY.     It 's  not — not  a  proper  one. 

DICK.     How  do  you  mean,  Joy? 

JOY.  I  overheard.  I  don't  care,  I  listened.  I 
would  n't  if  it  had  been  anybody  else,  but  I  hate  him. 

DICK.     [Gravely.]     What  did  you  hear? 

JOY.  He  's  keeping  back  something  Uncle  Tom 
ought  to  know. 

DICK.     Are  you  sure? 

QOY  makes  a  rush  to  pass  him.] 

[Barring  the  way.]  No,  wait  a  minute — you  must! 
Was  it  something  that  really  matters  ? — I  don't  want 
to  know  what. 

JOY.     Yes,  it  was. 

DICK.  What  a  beastly  thing — are  you  quite  cer- 
tain, Joy? 

JOY.     [Between  her  teeth.]     Yes. 

DICK.  Then  you  must  tell  him,  of  course,  even  if 
you  did  overhear.  You  can't  stand  by  and  see  the 
Colonel  swindled.  Whom  was  he  talking  to? 

JOY.     I  won't  tell  you. 

DICK.  [Taking  her  wrist.]  Was  it — was  it  your 
Mother?  QOY  bends  her  head.] 
But  if  it  was  your  Mother,  why  does  n't  she 

JOY.     Let  me  go ! 

DICK.  [Still  holding  her.]  I  mean  I  can't  see 
what 

JOY.     [Passionately.]    Let  me  go! 

DICK.  [Releasing  her.]  I  'm  thinking  of  your 
Mother,  Joy.  She  would  never 

JOY.     [Covering  her  face.]     That  man! 

DICK.  But  Joy,  just  think !  There  must  be  some 
mistake.  It's  so  queer — it's  quite  impossible! 


ACT  in  Joy  155 

JOY.     He  won  „  .et  her. 

DICK.  Won't  let  her — won't  let  her?  But — 
[Stopping  dead,  and  in  a  very  different  voice.]  Oh ! 

JOY.  [Passionately]  Why  d'  you  look  at  me  like 
that?  Why  can't  you  speak? 

[She  waits  for  him  to  speak,  but  he  does  not] 
I  'm  going  to  show  what  he  is,  so  that  Mother  shan't 
speak  to  him  again.  I  can — can't  I — if  I  tell  Uncle 

Tom?— can't  I ? 

DICK.     But  Joy — if  your  Mother  knows  a  thing  like 

— that 

JOY.  She  wanted  to  tell — she  begged  him — and 
he  would  n't. 

DICK.     But,  Joy,  dear,  it  means 

JOY.  I  hate  him,  I  want  to  make  her  hate  him,  and 
I  will. 

DICK.  But,  Joy,  dear,  don't  you  see — if  your 
Mother  knows  a  thing  like  that,  and  does  n't  speak  of 
it,  it  means  that  she — it  means  that  you  can't  make 
her  hate  him — it  means — If  it  were  anybody  else — • 
but,  well,  you  can't  give  your  own  Mother  away! 

JOY.  How  dare  you !  How  dare  you !  [Turning 
to  the  hollow  tree]  It  is  n't  true — Oh  !  it  is  n't  true ! 

DICK.  [In  deep  distress]  Joy,  dear,  I  never  meant, 
I  didn't  really! 

[He  tries  to  pull  her  hands  down  from  her  jaoe. 
JOY.     [Suddenly.]     Oh!  go  away,  go  away! 

[MRS.  GWYN  is  seen  coming  back.  JOY  springs 
into  the  tree.  DICK  quickly  steals  away. 
MRS.  GWYN  goes  up  to  the  chair  and  takes 
the  scarf  that  she  has  come  for,  and  is  going 
again  when  JOY  steals  out  to  her.] 
Mother  !  [MRS.  GWYN  stands  looking  at  her  with  her 
teeth  set  on  her  lower  lip] 


156  Joy  ACTIH 

Oh!  Mother,  it  is  n't  true? 

MRS.  GWYN.    [Very  still.]    What  isn't  true? 

JOY.     That  you  and  he  are 

[Searching  her  Mother's  face,  which  is  deadly 

still.     In  a  whisper.] 
Then  it  is  true.    Oh! 

MRS.  GWYN.  That 's  enough,  Joy!  What  7  am  is 
my  affair — not  yours — do  you  understand  ? 

JOY.     [Low  and  fierce.]     Yes,  I  do. 

MRS.  GWYN.     You  don't.     You  're  only  a  child. 

JOY.  [Passionately]  I  understand  that  you  've 
hurt [She  stops. 

MRS.  GWYN.    Do  you  mean  your  Father? 

JOY.  [Bowing  her  head.}  Yes,  and — and  me. 
[She  covers  her  face.]  I  'm — I  'm  ashamed. 

MRS.  GWYN.  I  brought  you  into  the  world,  and  you 
say  that  to  me  ?  Have  I  been  a  bad  mother  to  you  ? 

JOY.     [In  a  smothered  voice]    Oh!  Mother! 

MRS.  GWYN.  Ashamed?  Am  7  to  live  all  my  life 
like  a  dead  woman  because  you  're  ashamed  ?  Am  I 
to  live  like  the  dead  because  you  're  a  child  that 
knows  nothing  of  life?  Listen,  Joy,  you'd  better 
understand  this  once  for  all.  Your  Father  has  no  right 
over  me  and  he  knows  it.  We  've  been  hateful  to 
each  other  for  years.  Can  you  understand  that? 
Don't  cover  your  face  like  a  child — look  at  me. 

[JoY  drops  her  hands,  and  lifts  her  face.  MRS. 
GWYN  looks  back  at  her,  her  lips  are  quiver- 
ing; she  goes  on  speaking  with  stammering 
rapidity.] 

D*  you  think — because  I  suffered  when  you  were  born 
and  because  I  've  suffered  since  with  every  ache  you 
ever  had,  that  that  gives  you  the  right  to  dictate  to 
me  now?  [In  a  dead  voice]  I  've  been  unhappy 


ACT  111 


Joy  15? 


enough  and  I  shall  be  unhappy  enough  in  the  time  to 
come.  [Meeting  the  hard  wonder  in  JOY'S  face.]  Oh! 
you  untouched  things,  you  're  as  hard  and  cold  as 
iron! 

JOY.     I  would  do  anything  for  you,  Mother. 

MRS.  GWYN.  Except — let  me  live,  Joy.  That 's 
the  only  thing  you  won't  do  for  me,  I  quite  under- 
stand. 

JOY.  Oh  !  Mother,  you  don't  understand — I  want 
you  so;  and  I  seem  to  be  nothing  to  you  now. 

MRS.  GWYN.     Nothing  to  me?  [She  smiles. 

JOY.  Mother,  darling,  if  you  're  so  unhappy  let's 
forget  it  all,  let 's  go  away  and  I  '11  be  everything  to 
you,  I  promise. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [With  the  ghost  of  a  laugh.]  Ah, 
Joy! 

JOY.     I  would  try  so  hard. 

MRS.  GWYN.  [With  the  same  quivering  smile.]  My 
darling,  I  know  you  would,  until  you  fell  in  love 
yourself. 

JOY.  Oh,  Mother,  I  would  n't,  I  never  would,  I 
swear  it. 

MRS.  GWYN.  There  has  never  been  a  woman,  Joy, 
that  did  not  fall  in  love. 

JOY.  [In  a  despairing  whisper.]  But  it  's  wrong 
of  you — it 's  wicked ! 

MRS.  GWYN.  If  it 's  wicked,  I  shall  pay  for  it,  not 
you! 

JOY.     But  I  want  to  save  you,  Mother! 

MRS.  GWYN.     Save  me?     [Breaking  into  laughter. 

JOY.  I  can't  bear  it  that  you — if  you  '11  only— 
I  '11  never  leave  you.  You  think  I  don't  know 
what  I  'm  saying,  but  I  do,  because  even  now  I — • 
I  half  love  somebody.  Oh,  Mother!  [Pressing  her 


158  Joy 


ACT  III 


breast.]  I  feel — I  feel  so  awful — as  if  everybody 
knew. 

MRS.  GWYN.  You  think  I  'm  a  monster  to  hurt 
you.  Ah!  yes!  You  '11  understand  better  some 
day. 

JOY.  [In  a  sudden  outburst  of  excited  fear.]  I  won't 
believe  it — I — I — can't — you're  deserting  me,  Mother. 

MRS.    GWYN.     Oh,   you   untouched   things!     You 


[JoY  looks  up  suddenly,  sees  her  face,  and  sinks 

down  on  her  knees.} 
JOY.     Mother — it 's  for  me! 

MRS.  GWYN.  Ask  for  my  life,  Joy — don't  be 
afraid ! 

[JoY  turns  her  face  away.  MRS.  GWYN  bends 
suddenly  and  touches  her  daughter's  hair; 
JOY  shrinks  from  that  touch.] 

[Recoiling  as  though  she  had  been  stung.]  I  forgot — 
I  'm  deserting  you. 

[And  swiftly  without  looking  back  she  goes  away. 
JOY,  left  alone  under  the  hollow  tree,  crouches 
lower,  and  her  shoulders  shake.  Here  DICK 
finds  her,  when  he  hears  no  longer  any  sound 
of  voices.  He  falls  on  his  knees  beside 
her.] 

DICK.  Oh!  Joy,  dear,  don't  cry.  It  's  so  dread- 
ful to  see  you !  I  'd  do  anything  not  to  see  you  cry ! 
Say  something. 

QOY  is  still  for  a  moment,  then  the  shaking  of 

the  shoulders  begins  again.] 

Joy,  darling!  It  's  so  awful,  you  '11  make  yourself  ill, 
and  it  is  n't  worth  it,  really.  I  'd  do  anything  to  save 
you  pain — won't  you  stop  just  for  a  minute  ? 

QOY  is  still  again.] 


ACT  III 


Joy  159 


Nothing  in  the  world  's  worth  your  crying,  Joy.  Give 
me  just  a  little  look! 

JOY.     [Looking;  in  a  smothered  voice.]     Don't! 

DICK.  You  do  look  so  sweet!  Oh,  Joy!  I  '11 
comfort  you,  I  '11  take  it  all  on  myself.  I  know  all 
about  it.  QOY  gives  a  sobbing  laugh.] 

I  do.  I  've  had  trouble  too,  I  swear  I  have.  It  gets 
better,  it  does  really. 

JOY.     You  don't  know — it 's — it 's 

DICK.  Don't  think  about  it!  No,  no,  no!  I 
know  exactly  what  it  's  like.  [He  strokes  her  arm. 

JOY.     [Shrinking,   in   a   whisper.]     You   must  n't. 
[The  music  of  a  waltz  is  heard  again. 

DICK.  Look  here,  Joy!  It 's  no  good,  we  must 
talk  it  over  calmly. 

JOY.  You  don't  see!  It 's  the — it  's  the  dis- 
grace  

DICK.  Oh!  as  to  disgrace — she  's  your  Mother, 
whatever  she  does;  I  'd  like  to  see  anybody  say  any- 
thing about  her — [viciously] — 7  'd  punch  his  head. 

JOY.     [Gulping  her  tears.]    That  does  n't  help. 

DICK.     But  if  she  does  n't  love  your  Father 

JOY.     But  she  's  married  to  him! 

DICK.  [Hastily.]  Yes,  of  course,  I  know,  marriage 
is  awfully  important;  but  a  man  understands  these 
things. 

[JoY  looks  at  him.    Seeing  the  impression  he  has 

made,  he  tries  again.] 

I  mean,  he  understands  better  than  a  woman.  I  've 
often  argued  about  moral  questions  with  men  up  at 
Oxford. 

JOY.  [Catching  at  a  straw.]  But  there 's  nothing 
to  argue  about. 

DICK.     [Hastily.]     Of  course,  7  believe  in  morals. 


160  Joy 


ACT  III 


[They  stare  solemnly  at  each  other.]  Some  men 
don't.  But  /  can't  help  seeing  marriage  is  awfully 
important. 

JOY.     [Solemnly.]     It 's  sacred. 

DICK.  Yes,  I  know,  but  there  must  be  exceptions, 
Joy- 

JOY.  [Losing  herself  a  little  in  the  stress  of  this  dis- 
cussion.] How  can  there  be  exceptions  if  a  thing  's 
sacred  ? 

DICK.  [Earnestly.]  All  rules  have  exceptions; 
that 's  true,  you  know;  it 's  a  proverb. 

JOY.  It  can't  be  true  about  marriage — how  can  it 
when ? 

DICK.  [With  intense  earnestness]  But  look  here, 
Joy,  I  know  a  really  clever  man — an  author.  He  says 
that  if  marriage  is  a  failure  people  ought  to  be  per- 
fectly free;  it  isn't  everybody  who  believes  that 
marriage  is  everything.  Of  course,  7  believe  it 's 
sacred,  but  if  it 's  a  failure,  I  do  think  it  seems  awful 
— don't  you? 

JOY.  I  don't  know — yes — if —  [Suddenly]  But 
it 's  my  own  Mother! 

DICK.  [Gravely.]  I  know,  of  course.  I  can't  ex- 
pect you  to  see  it  in  your  own  case  like  this.  [With  de- 
speration] But  look  here,  Joy,  this  '11  show  you !  If 
a  person  loves  a  person,  they  have  to  decide,  have  n't 
they?  Well,  then,  you  see,  that 's  what  your 
Mother  's  done. 

JOY.     But  that  does  n't  show  me  anything! 

DICK.  But  it  does.  The  thing  is  to  look  at  it  as 
if  it  was  n't  yourself.  If  it  had  been  you  and  me  in 
love,  Joy,  and  it  was  wrong,  like  them,  of  course  [rue- 
fully] I  know  you  'd  have  decided  right.  [Fiercely] 
But  I  swear  I  should  have  decided  wrong.  [Trium- 


ACT  III 


Joy  161 


phantly.]  That 's  why  I  feel  I  understand  your 
Mother. 

JOY.  [Brushing  her  sleeve  across  her  eyes.]  Oh, 
Dick,  you  are  so  sweet — and — and — funny! 

DICK.  [Sliding  his  arm  about  her.]  I  love  you,  Joy, 
that 's  why,  and  I  '11  love  you  till  you  don't  feel  it 
any  more.  I  will.  I  '11  love  you  all  day  and  every 
day;  you  shan't  miss  anything,  I  swear  it.  It 's 
such  a  beautiful  night — it  's  on  purpose.  Look! 
QOY  looks;  he  looks  at  her.]  But  it 's  not  so  beautiful 
as  you. 

JOY.  [Bending  her  head.]  You  must  n't.  I  don't 
know — what's  coming? 

DICK.  [Sidling  closer.]  Aren't  your  knees  tired, 
darling?  I — I  can't  get  near  you  properly. 

JOY.  [With  a  sob.]  Oh!  Dick,  you  are  a  funny — 
comfort! 

DICK.  We'll  stick  together,  Joy,  always;  noth- 
ing '11  matter  then. 

[They  struggle  to  their  feet — the  waltz  sounds 

louder.] 

You're  missing  it  all!  I  can't  bear  you  to  miss  the 
dancing.  It  seems  so  queer!  Could  n't  we?  Just  a 
little  turn  ? 

JOY.     No,  no! 

DICK.     Oh!  try! 

[He  takes  her  gently  by  the  waist,  she  shrinks 
back. 

JOY.  [Brokenly.]  No — no!  Oh!  Dick — to-mor- 
row '11  be  so  awful. 

Dick.  To-morrow  shan't  hurt  you,  Joy;  nothing 
shall  ever  hurt  you  again. 

[She  looks  at  him,  and  her  face  changes;  sud- 
denly she  buries  it  against  his  shoulder.] 
it 


162  Joy 


ACT  III 


[They  stand  so  just  a  moment  in  the  moon- 
light; then  turning  to  the  river  move  slowly 
out  of  sight.  Again  the  hollow  tree  is 
left  alone.  The  music  of  the  waltz  has 
stopped.  The  voices  of  Miss  BEECH  and 
the  COLONEL  are  heard  approaching  from 
the  house.  They  appear  in  the  opening 
of  the  wall.  The  COLONEL  carries  a  pair 
of  field  glasses  with  which  to  look  at  the 
moon.] 

COLONEL.  Charming  to  see  Molly  dance  with 
Lever,  their  steps  go  so  well  together!  I  can  always 
tell  when  a  woman 's  enjoying  herself,  Peachey. 

Miss  BEECH.  [Sharply.]  Can  you?  You're  very 
clever. 

COLONEL.  Wonderful,  that  moon!  I'm  going  to 
have  a  look  at  her!  Splendid  glasses  these,  Peachy 
[he  screws  them  out],  not  a  better  pair  in  England. 
I  remember  in  Burmah  with  these  glasses  I  used  to 
be  able  to  tell  a  man  from  a  woman  at  two  miles 
and  a  quarter.  And  that's  no  joke,  I  can  tell  you. 
[But  on  his  way  to  the  moon,  he  has  taken  a  survey  of 
the  earth  to  the  right  along  the  river.  In  a  low  but  ex- 
cited voice]  I  say,  I  say — is  it  one  of  the  maids — the 
baggage!  Why!  It's  Dick!  By  George,  she's  got 
her  hair  down,  Peachey !  It 's  Joy  ! 

[Miss    BEECH   goes   to   look.     He  makes  as 

though  to  hand  the  glasses  to  her,  but  puts 

them  to  his  own  eyes  instead — excitedly.] 

It    is!     What    about    her    headache?     By    George, 

they  're  kissing.     I   say,  Peachey!     I   shall  have  to 

tell  Nell! 

Miss  BEECH.  Are  you  sure  they're  kissing?  Well, 
that's  some  comfort. 


ACTIII 


Joy  163 


COLONEL.  They're  at  the  stile  now.  Oughtn't 
I  to  stop  them,  eh?  [He  stands  on  tiptoe. .]  We  must 
n't  spy  on  them,  dash  it  all.  [He  drops  the  glasses.] 
They  're  out  of  sight  now. 

Miss  BEECH.  [To  herself.]  He  said  he  wouldn't 
let  her. 

COLONEL.  What!  have  you  been  encouraging 
them! 

Miss  BEECH.    Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry! 

[She  moves  towards  the  hollow  tree. 

COLONEL.  [Abstractedly.]  By  George,  Peachey, 
to  think  that  Nell  and  I  were  once — Poor  Nell!  I 
remember  just  such  a  night  as  this — 

[He  stops,  and  stares  before  him,  sighing. 

Miss  BEECH.  [Impressively.]  It's  a  comfort  she's 
got  that  good  young  man.  She's  found  out  that 
her  mother  and  this  Mr.  Lever  are — you  know. 

COLONEL.  [Losing  all  traces  of  his  fussiness,  and 
drawing  himself  up  as  though  he  were  on  parade.}  You 
tell  me  that  my  niece ? 

Miss  BEECH.     Out  of  her  own  mouth ! 

COLONEL.  [Bowing  his  head.}  I  never  would 
have  believed  she'd  have  forgotten  herself. 

Miss  BEECH.  [Very  solemnly.]  Ah,  my  dear! 
We  're  all  the  same ;  we  're  all  as  hollow  as  that  tree ! 
When  it 's  ourselves  it 's  always  a  special  case  ! 

[The  COLONEL  makes  a  movement  of  distress, 

and  Miss  BEECH  goes  to  him.] 
Don't  you  take  it  so  to  heart,  my  dear!        [A  silence. 

COLONEL.  [Shaking  his  head.]  I  couldn't  have 
believed  Molly  would  forget  that  child. 

Miss  BEECH.  [Sadly.]  They  must  go  their  own 
ways,  poor  things!  She  can't  put  herself  in  the 
child 's  place,  and  the  child  can't  put  herself  in  Molly 's. 


1 64  Joy 


ACT  III 


A  woman  and  a  girl — there 's  the  tree  of  life  between 
them ! 

COLONEL.  [Staring  into  the  tree  to  see  indeed  if 
that  were  the  tree  alluded  to.]  It's  a  grief  to  me, 
Peachey,  it 's  a  grief !  [He  sinks  into  a  chair,  strok- 
ing his  long  moustaches.  Then  to  avenge  his  hurt.] 
Shan't  tell  Nell — dashed  if  I  do  anything  to  make 
the  trouble  worse ! 

Miss  BEECH.  [Nodding.]  There's  suffering 
enough,  without  adding  to  it  with  our  trumpery 
judgments!  If  only  things  would  last  between 
them ! 

COLONEL.  [Fiercely.]  Last!  By  George,  they'd 
better — [He  stops,  and  looking  up  with  a  queer  sorry 
look.]  I  say,  Peachey — Life 's  very  funny  ! 

Miss    BEECH.     Men   and   women   are!    [Touching 

his  forehead  tenderly.]    There,   there — take  care    of 

your  poor,  dear  head !    Tsst !    The  blessed  innocents ! 

[She  pulls  the  COLONEL'S  sleeve.     They  slip 

away  towards  the  house,  as  JOY  and  DICK 

come  back.     They  are  still  linked  together, 

and  stop  by  the  hollow  tree.] 

JOY.  [In  a  whisper.]  Dick,  is  love  always  like 
this? 

DICK.  [Putting  his  arms  around  her,  with  convic- 
tion.] It 's  never  been  like  this  before.  It 's  you  and 
me!  [He  kisses  her  on  the  lips. 

The  curtain  falls. 


STRIFE 
A  DRAMA  IN  THREE  ACTS 


PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

JOHN  ANTHONY,  Chairman  of  the  Trenartha  Tin  Plate  Works 

EDGAR  ANTHONY,  his  son,   ~\ 

FREDERIC  H.  WILDER,          I   Directors  of  the  same 

WILLIAM  SCANTLEBURY, 

OLIVER  WANKLIN,  J 

HENRY  TENCH,  Secretary  of  the  same 

FRANCIS  UNDERWOOD,  C.E.,  Manager  of  the  same 

SIMON  HARNESS,  a  Trades  Union  official 

DAVID  ROBERTS, 

JAMES  GREEN, 

JOHN  BULGIN,  ^  the  workmen's  committee 

HENRY  THOMAS, 

GEORGE  Rous, 

HENRY  Rous, 

LEWIS, 

JAGO, 


EVANS, 

A  BLACKSMITH, 


workmen  at  the  Trenartha  Tin 
Plate  Works 


DAVIES, 

A  RED-HAIRED  YOUTH, 

BROWN 

FROST,  valet  to  John  Anthony 

ENID  UNDERWOOD,  wife  of  Francis   Underwood,  daughter  of 

John  Anthony 

ANNIE  ROBERTS,  wife  of  David  Roberts 
MADGE  THOMAS,  daughter  of  Henry  Thomas 
MRS.  Rous,  mother  of  George  and  Henry  Rous 
MRS.  BULGIN,  wife  of  John  Bulgin 
MRS.  YEO,  wife  of  a  workman 
A  PARLOURMAID  to  the  Underwoods 
JAN,  Madge's  brother,  a  boy  often 
A  CROWD  OF  MEN  ON  STRIKE 


ACT  I.       The  dining-room  of  the  Manager's  house. 

ACT  II.,     SCENE  I.     The  kitchen  of  the  Roberts 's  cottage 
near  the  works. 

SCENE  II.    A  space  outside  the  works. 
ACT  III.     The  drawing-room  of  the  Manager's  house. 

The  action  takes  place  on  February  ?th  between  the  hours 
of  noon  and  six  in  the  afternoon,  close  to  the  Trenartha  Tin 
Plate  Works,  on  the  borders  of  England  and  Wales,  where  a 
strike  has  been  in  progress  throughout  the  winter. 


ACT  I 

//  is  noon.  In  the  Underwoods'  dining-room  a  bright 
fire  is  burning.  On  one  side  of  the  fireplace  are 
double-doors  leading  to  the  drawing-room,  on  the 
other  side  a  door  leading  to  the  hall.  In  the  cen- 
tre of  the  room  a  long  dining-table  without  a  cloth 
is  set  out  as  a  Board  table.  At  the  head  of  it,  in 
the  Chairman's  seat,  sits  JOHN  ANTHONY,  an 
old  man,  big,  clean-shaven,  and  high-coloured, 
with  thick  white  hair,  and  thick  dark  eyebrows. 
His  movements  are  rather  slow  and  feeble,  but 
his  eyes  are  very  much  alive.  There  is  a  glass 
of  water  by  his  side.  On  his  right  sits  his  son 
EDGAR,  an  earnest-looking  man  of  thirty,  read- 
ing a  newspaper-.  Next  him  WANKLIN,  a  man 
with  jutting  eyebrows,  and  silver-streaked  light 
hair,  is  bending  over  transfer  papers.  TENCH, 
the  Secretary,  a  short  and  rather  humble,  nervous 
man,  with  side  whiskers,  stands  helping  him. 
On  WANKLIN 's  right  sits  UNDERWOOD,  the  Man- 
ager, a  quiet  man,  with  a  long,  stiff  jaw,  and  steady 
eyes.  Back  to  the  fire  is  SCANTLEBURY,  a  very 
large,  pale,  sleepy  man,  with  grey  hair,  rather 
bald.  Between  him  and  the  Chairman  are  two 
empty  chairs. 

WILDER.     [Who  is  lean,  cadaverous,  and  complain- 
ing, with  drooping  grey  moustaches,  stands  before  tht 

169 


170  Strife 


ACT  I 


fire.]  I  say,  this  fire's  the  devil!   Can  I  have  a  screen, 
Tench? 

SCANTLEBURY.     A  screen,  ah! 

TENCH.  Certainly,  Mr.  Wilder.  [He  looks  at 
UNDERWOOD.]  That  is — perhaps  the  Manager — per- 
haps Mr.  Underwood • 

SCANTLEBURY.  These  fireplaces  of  yours,  Under- 
wood  

UNDERWOOD.  [Roused  from  studying  some  papers.] 
A  screen?  Rather!  I'm  sorry.  [He  goes  to  the 
door  with  a  little  smile.]  We're  not  accustomed  to 
complaints  of  too  much  fire  down  here  just 
now. 

[He  speaks  as  though  he  holds  a  pipe  between 
his  teeth,  slowly,  ironically.] 

WILDER.  [In  an  injured  voice.]  You  mean  the 
men.  H'm!  [UNDERWOOD  goes  out. 

SCANTLEBURY.     Poor  devils! 

WILDER.     It 's  their  own  fault,  Scantlebury. 

EDGAR.  [Holding  out  his  paper.]  There  's  great 
distress  among  them,  according  to  the  Trenartha 
News. 

WILDER.  Oh,  that  rag!  Give  it  to  Wanklin. 
Suit  his  Radical  views.  They  call  us  monsters,  I 
suppose.  The  editor  of  that  rubbish  ought  to  be 
shot. 

EDGAR.  [Reading.]  "If  the  Board  of  worthy 
gentlemen  who  control  the  Trenartha  Tin  Plate 
Works  from  their  arm-chairs  in  London  would  con- 
descend to  come  and  see  for  themselves  the  conditions 
prevailing  amongst  their  workpeople  during  this 
strike " 

WILDER.     Well,  we  have  come. 

EDGAR.     [Continuing.]     "We  cannot  believe  that 


ACT  I 


Strife  171 


even  their  leg-of-mutton  hearts  would  remain  un- 
touched. "  [WANKLIN  takes  the  paper  from  him. 
WILDER.  Ruffian!  I  remember  that  fellow  when 
he  had  n't  a  penny  to  his  name;  little  snivel  of  a 
chap  that's  made  his  way  by  blackguarding  every- 
body who  takes  a  different  view  to  himself. 

[ANTHONY  says  something  that  is  not  heard. 
WILDER.     What  does  your  father  say? 
EDGAR.     He  says  "The  kettle  and  the  pot. " 
WILDER.     H'm! 

[He  sits  down  next  to  SCANTLEBURY. 
SCANTLEBURY.     [Blowing  out  his  cheeks.]     I  shall 
boil  if  I  don't  get  that  screen. 

[UNDERWOOD  and  ENID  enter  with  a  screen, 
which  they  place  before  the  fire.  ENID 
is  tall;  she  has  a  small,  decided  face,  and 
is  twenty-eight  years  old.] 

ENID.     Put  it  closer,   Frank.     Will  that  do,  Mr. 
Wilder?     It's  the  highest  we've  got. 
WILDER.     Thanks,  capitally. 

SCANTLEBURY.     [Turning,  with  a  sigh  of  pleasure.] 
Ah!  Merci,  Madame! 

ENID.     Is  there  anything  else  you  want,  Father? 
[ANTHONY  shakes  his  head.]     Edgar — anything? 
EDGAR.     You  might  give  me  a  "J"  nib,  old  girl. 
ENID.     There  are  some  down  there  by  Mr.  Scan- 
tlebury. 

SCANTLEBURY.     [Handing    a    little    box    of    nibs.] 
Ah!  your  brother  uses  "  J's."     What  does  the  man- 
ager use?     [With  expansive  politeness.]     What  does 
your  husband  use,  Mrs.  Underwood? 
UNDERWOOD.     A  quill! 

SCANTLEBURY.     The  homely  product  of  the  goose. 

[He  holds  out  quills. 


172  Strife 


ACT  1 


UNDERWOOD.  [Drily.]  Thanks,  if  you  can  spare 
me  one.  [He  takes  a  quill.]  What  about  lunch, 
Enid? 

ENID.     [Stopping  at  the  double-doors   and   looking 
back.]    We  're  going  to  have  lunch  here,  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, so  you  need  n't  hurry  with  your  meeting. 
[WANKLIN  and  WILDER  bow,  and  she  goes  out. 

SCANTLEBURY.  [Rousing  himself,  suddenly.]  Ah! 
Lunch!  That  hotel —  Dreadful!  Did  you  try  the 
whitebait  last  night?  Fried  fat! 

WILDER.  Past  twelve!  Aren't  you  going  to 
read  the  minutes,  Tench? 

TENCH.  [Looking  for  the  CHAIRMAN'S  assent,  reads 
in  a  rapid  and  monotonous  voice.]  "At  a  Board 
Meeting  held  the  3ist  of  January  at  the  Company's 
Offices,  512,  Cannon  Street,  E.G.  Present — Mr. 
Anthony  in  the  chair,  Messrs.  F.  H.  Wilder,  William 
Scantlebury,  Oliver  Wanklin,  and  Edgar  Anthony. 
Read  letters  from  the  Manager  dated  January  2oth, 
23d,  25th,  28th,  relative  to  the  strike  at  the  Com- 
pany's Works.  Read  letters  to  the  Manager  of 
January  2ist,  24th,  26th,  2gth.  Read  letter  from 
Mr.  Simon  Harness,  of  the  Central  Union,  asking 
for  an  interview  with  the  Board.  Read  letter  from 
the  Men's  Committee,  signed  David  Roberts,  James 
Green,  John  Bulgin,  Henry  Thomas,  George  Rous, 
desiring  conference  with  the  Board;  and  it  was  re- 
solved that  a  special  Board  Meeting  be  called  for 
February  7th  at  the  house  of  the  Manager,  for  the 
purpose  of  discussing  the  situation  with  Mr.  Simon 
Harness  and  the  Men's  Committee  on  the  spot. 
Passed  twelve  transfers,  signed  and  sealed  nine  cer- 
tificates and  one  balance  certificate." 

[He  pushes  the  book  over  to  the  CHAIRMAN. 


ACT  I 


Strife  1 73 


ANTHONY.  [With  a  heavy  sigh.]  If  it's  your 
pleasure,  sign  the  same. 

[He  signs,  moving  the  pen  with  difficulty. 

WANKLIN.  What's  the  Union's  game,  Tench? 
They  have  n't  made  up  their  split  with  the  men. 
What  does  Harness  want  this  interview  for? 

TENCH.  Hoping  we  shall  come  to  a  compromise, 
I  think,  sir;  he's  having  a  meeting  with  the  men  this 
afternoon. 

WILDER.  Harness!  Ah!  He's  one  of  those  cold- 
blooded, cool-headed  chaps.  I  distrust  them.  I 
don't  know  that  we  didn't  make  a  mistake  to  come 
down.  What  time '11  the  men  be  here? 

UNDERWOOD.     Any  time  now. 

WILDER.  Well,  if  we're  not  ready,  they'll  have 
to  wait — won 't  do  them  any  harm  to  cool  their  heels 
a  bit. 

SCANTLEBURY.  [Slowly.]  Poordevils!  It's  snow- 
ing. What  weather! 

UNDERWOOD.  [With  meaning  slowness.]  This 
house  11  be  the  warmest  place  they've  been  in  this 
winter. 

WILDER.  Well,  I  hope  we're  going  to  settle  this 
business  in  time  for  me  to  catch  the  6.30.  I've  got 
to  take  my  wife  to  Spain  to-morrow.  [Chattily.] 
My  old  father  had  a  strike  at  his  works  in  '69 ;  just 
such  a  February  as  this.  They  wanted  to  shoot  him. 

WANKLIN.     What!     In  the  close  season? 

WILDER.  By  George,  there  was  no  close  season 
for  employers  then!  He  used  to  go  down  to  his 
office  with  a  pistol  in  his  pocket. 

SCANTLEBURY.     [Faintly  alarmed.]     Not  seriously? 

WILDER.  [With  finality.]  Ended  in  his  shootin' 
one  of  'em  in  the  legs. 


174  Strife 


ACT  I 


SCANTLEBURY.  [Unavoidably  feeling  his  thigh.] 
No?  Which? 

ANTHONY.  [Lifting  the  agenda  paper.]  To  con- 
sider the  policy  of  the  Board  in  relation  to  the 
strike.  [There  is  a  silence. 

WILDER.  It's  this  infernal  three-cornered  duel — • 
the  Union,  the  men,  and  ourselves. 

WAN  KLIN.     We  need  n't  consider  the  Union. 

WILDER.  It's  my  experience  that  you've  always 
got  to  consider  the  Union,  confound  them!  If  the 
Union  were  going  to  withdraw  their  support  from 
the  men,  as  they've  done,  why  did  they  ever  allow 
them  to  strike  at  all? 

EDGAR.     We  've  had  that  over  a  dozen  times. 

WILDER.  Well,  I've  never  understood  it!  It's 
beyond  me.  They  talk  of  the  engineers'  and  fur- 
nacemen's  demands  being  excessive — so  they  are — • 
but  that's  not  enough  to  make  the  Union  withdraw 
their  support.  What's  behind  it? 

UNDERWOOD.  Fear  of  strikes  at  Harper's  and 
Tine  well 's. 

WILDER.  [With  triumph.]  Afraid  of  other  strikes 
— now,  that's  a  reason!  Why  could  n't  we  have  been 
told  that  before? 

UNDERWOOD.     You  were. 

TENCH.  You  were  absent  from  the  Board  that 
day,  sir. 

SCANTLEBURY.  The  men  must  have  seen  they  had 
no  chance  when  the  Union  gave  them  up.  It's 
madness. 

UNDERWOOD.     It's  Roberts! 

WILDER.  Just  our  luck,  the  men  finding  a  fanatical 
firebrand  like  Roberts  for  leader.  [A  pause. 

WANKLIN.     [Looking  at  ANTHONY.]    Well? 


ACT  I 


Strife  175 


WILDER.  [Breaking  in  fussily.]  It's  a  regular 
mess.  I  don't  like  the  position  we're  in;  I  don't  like 
it ;  I  've  said  so  for  a  long  time.  [Looking  at  WANKLIN.] 
When  Wanklin  and  I  came  down  here  before  Christ- 
mas it  looked  as  if  the  men  must  collapse.  You 
thought  so  too,  Underwood. 

UNDERWOOD.    Yes. 

WILDER.  Well,  they  have  n't!  Here  we  are,  going 
from  bad  to  worse — losing  our  customers — shares 
going  down ! 

SCANTLEBURY.     [Shaking  his  head]     M'm!    M'm! 

WANKLIN.  What  loss  have  we  made  by  this  strike, 
Tench? 

TENCH.     Over  fifty  thousand,  sir! 

SCANTLEBURY.    [Pained]    You  don't  say! 

WILDER.     We  shall  never  get  it  back. 

TENCH.     No,  sir. 

WILDER.  Who'd  have  supposed  the  men  were 
going  to  stick  out  like  this — nobody  suggested  that. 

[Looking  angrily  at  TENCH. 

SCANTLEBURY.  [Shaking  his  head]  I've  never 
liked  a  fight — never  shall. 

ANTHONY.     No  surrender!  [All  look  at  him. 

WILDER.  Who  wants  to  surrender?  [ANTHONY 
looks  at  him]  I — I  want  to  act  reasonably.  When 
the  men  sent  Roberts  up  to  the  Board  in  December — 
then  was  the  time.  We  ought  to  have  humoured 
him;  instead  of  that  the  Chairman — [Dropping  his 
eyes  before  ANTHONY'S] — er — we  snapped  his  head 
off.  We  could  have  got  them  in  then  by  a  little  tact. 

ANTHONY.     No  compromise! 

WILDER.  There  we  are!  This  strike's  been  going 
on  now  since  October,  and  as  far  as  I  can  see  it  may 
last  another  six  months.  Pretty  mess  we  shall  be  in 


1 76  Strife 


ACT  I 


by  then.     The  only  comfort  is,  the  men  11  be  in  a 
worse! 

EDGAR.  [To  UNDERWOOD.]  What  sort  of  state 
are  they  really  in,  Frank? 

UNDERWOOD.     [Without  expression.]    Damnable! 

WILDER.  Well,  who  on  earth  would  have  thought 
they'd  have  held  on  like  this  without  support! 

UNDERWOOD.     Those  who  know  them. 

WILDER.  I  defy  any  one  to  know  them!  And 
what  about  tin?  Price  going  up  daily.  When  we 
do  get  started  we  shall  have  to  work  off  our  contracts 
at  the  top  of  the  market. 

WANKLIN.     What  do  you  say  to  that,  Chairman? 

ANTHONY.     Can't  be  helped! 

WILDER.  Shan't  pay  a  dividend  till  goodness  knows 
when! 

SCANTLEBURY.  [With  emphasis.]  We  ought  to 
think  of  the  shareholders.  [Turning  heavily.]  Chair- 
man, I  say  we  ought  to  think  of  the  shareholders. 

[ANTHONY  mutters. 

SCANTLEBURY.     What's  that? 

TENCH.  The  Chairman  says  he  is  thinking  of  you, 
sir. 

SCANTLEBURY.     [Sinking  back  into  torpor.]    Cynic! 

WILDER.  It's  past  a  joke.  I  don't  want  to  go 
without  a  dividend  for  years  if  the  Chairman  does. 
We  can't  go  on  playing  ducks  and  drakes  with  the 
Company's  prosperity. 

EDGAR.  [Rather  ashamedly.]  I  think  we  ought 
to  consider  the  men. 

[All   but   ANTHONY   fidget  in  their   seats. 

SCANTLEBURY.  [With  a  sigh.]  We  must  n't  think 
of  our  private  feelings,  young  man.  That'll  never 
do. 


ACT1 


Strife  177 


EDGAR.     [Ironically.]     I'm    not    thinking    of   our 
feelings.     I  'm  thinking  of  the  men 's. 

WILDER.     As  to  that — we're  men  of  business. 

WANKLIN.     That  is  the  little  trouble. 

EDGAR.     There's  no  necessity  for  pushing  things 
so  far  in  the  face  of  all  this  suffering — it 's — it 's  cruel. 
[No  one  speaks,  as  though  EDGAR  had  un- 
covered something  whose  existence  no  man 
prizing  his  self-respect  could  afford  to  re- 
cognise.] 

WANKLIN.     [With  an  ironical  smile.]     I'm  afraid 
we  must  n't  base  our  policy  on  luxuries  like  sentiment. 

EDGAR.     I  detest  this  state  of  things. 

ANTHONY.     We  did  n't  seek  the  quarrel. 

EDGAR.     I  know  that  sir,  but  surely  we've  gone 
far  enough. 

ANTHONY.     No.  [All  look  at  one  another. 

WANKLIN.     Luxuries  apart,   Chairman,  we  must 
look  out  what  we  're  doing. 

ANTHONY.     Give  way  to  the  men  once  and  there  '11 
be  no  end  to  it. 

WANKLIN.     I  quite  agree,  but — 

[ANTHONY  shakes  his  head] 
You  make  it  a  question  of  bedrock  principle? 

[ANTHONY  nods.] 
Luxuries  again,  Chairman !     The  shares  are  below  par. 

WILDER.     Yes,  and  they'll  drop  to  a  half  when  we 
pass  the  next  dividend. 

SCANTLEBURY.      [With  alarm.]     Come,  come !    Not 
so  bad  as  that. 

WILDER.     [Grimly.]    You'll  see!    [Craning  forward 
to  catch  ANTHONY'S  speech.]    I  didn't  catch 

TENCH.     [Hesitating.]    The    Chairman    says,    sir, 
"Fais  que — que — devra " 


178  Strife 


ACT  I 


EDGAR.  [Sharply.]  My  father  says:  "Do  what 
we  ought — and  let  things  rip. " 

WILDER.     Tcha! 

SCANTLEBURY.  [Throwing  up  his  hands.}  The 
Chairman's  a  Stoic — I  always  said  the  Chairman 
was  a  Stoic. 

WILDER.     Much  good  that '11  do  us. 

WANKLIN.  [Suavely.]  Seriously,  Chairman,  are 
you  going  to  let  the  ship  sink  under  you,  for  the  sake 
of — a  principle  ? 

ANTHONY.     She  won 't  sink. 

SCANTLEBURY.  [With  alarm.]  Not  while  I'm  on 
the  Board  I  hope. 

ANTHONY.  [With  a  twinkle.]  Better  rat,  Scantle- 
bury. 

SCANTLEBURY.     What  a  man! 

ANTHONY.  I've  always  fought  them;  I've  never 
been  beaten  yet. 

WANKLIN.  We're  with  you  in  theory,  Chairman. 
But  we  're  not  all  made  of  cast-iron. 

ANTHONY.     We've  only  to  hold  on. 

WILDER.  [Rising  and  going  to  the  fire.]  And  go 
to  the  devil  as  fast  as  we  can ! 

ANTHONY.     Better  go  to  the  devil  than  give  in! 

WILDER.  [Fretfully.]  That  may  suit  you,  sir, 
but  it  doesn't  suit  me,  or  any  one  else  I  should 
think. 

[ANTHONY  looks  him  in  the  face — a  silence. 

EDGAR.  I  don't  see  how  we  can  get  over  it  that 
to  go  on  like  this  means  starvation  to  the  men's 
wives  and  families. 

[WILDER  turns  abruptly  to  the  fire,  and  SCAN- 
TLEBURY puts  out  a  hand  to  push  the  idea 
away.] 


ACT  I 


Strife  179 


WANKLIN.  I'm  afraid  again  that  sounds  a  little 
sentimental. 

EDGAR.  Men  of  business  are  excused  from  decency, 
you  think? 

WILDER.  Nobody's  more  sorry  for  the  men  than 
I  am,  but  if  they  [lashing  himself]  choose  to  be  such 
a  pig-headed  lot,  it's  nothing  to  do  with  us;  we've 
quite  enough  on  our  hands  to  think  of  ourselves  and 
the  shareholders. 

EDGAR.  [Irritably.]  It  won't  kill  the  shareholders 
to  miss  a  dividend  or  two;  I  don't  see  that  that's 
reason  enough  for  knuckling  under. 

SCANTLEBURY.  [With  grave  discomfort.]  You  talk 
very  lightly  of  your  dividends,  young  man;  I  don't 
know  where  we  are. 

WILDER.  There's  only  one  sound  way  of  looking 
at  it.  We  can't  go  on  ruining  ourselves  with  this 
strike. 

ANTHONY.     No  caving  in! 

SCANTLEBURY.  [With  a  gesture  of  despair.]  Look 
at  him! 

[ANTHONY  is  leaning  back  in  his  chair.     They 
do  look  at  him.] 

WILDER.  [Returning  to  his  seat.]  Well,  all  I  can 
say  is,  if  that's  the  Chairman's  view,  I  don't  know 
what  we  've  come  down  here  for. 

ANTHONY.  To  tell  the  men  that  we've  got  noth- 
ing for  them —  [Grimly.]  They  won 't  believe  it  till 
they  hear  it  spoken  in  plain  English. 

WILDER.  H'm!  Should  n't  be  a  bit  surprised  if 
that  brute  Roberts  had  n't  got  us  down  here  with 
the  very  same  idea.  I  hate  a  man  with  a  grievance. 

EDGAR.  [Resentfully.]  We  didn't  pay  him  enough 
for  his  discovery.  I  always  said  that  at  the  time. 


i8o  Strife 


ACT  I 


WILDER.  We  paid  him  five  hundred  and  a  bonus 
of  two  hundred  three  years  later.  If  that 's  not 
enough!  What  does  he  want,  for  goodness"  sake? 
TENCH.  [Complainingly.]  Company  made  a  hun- 
dred thousand  out  of  his  brains,  and  paid  him  seven 
hundred — that 's  the  way  he  goes  on,  sir. 

WILDER.  The  man 's  a  rank  agitator !  Look  here, 
I  hate  the  Unions.  But  now  we've  got  Harness  here 
let 's  get  him  to  settle  the  whole  thing. 

ANTHONY.     No!  [Again  they  look  at  him. 

UNDERWOOD.  Roberts  won't  let  the  men  assent 
to  that. 

SCANTLEBURY.     Fanatic!     Fanatic! 
WILDER.     [Looking   at   ANTHONY.]     And   not  the 
only  one!  [FROST  enters  from  the  hall. 

FROST.  [To  ANTHONY.]  Mr.  Harness  from  the 
Union,  waiting,  sir.  The  men  are  here  too,  sir. 

[ANTHONY   nods.     UNDERWOOD  goes  to   the 

door,    returning    with    HARNESS,    a   pale, 

dean-shaven  man  with  hollow  cheeks,  quick 

eyes,  and  lantern  jaw — FROST  has  retired.] 

UNDERWOOD.     [Pointing    to    TENCH'S    chair.]    Sit 

there  next  the  Chairman,  Harness,  won't  you? 

[At  HARNESS'S  appearance,  the  Board  have 

drawn  together,  as  it  were,  and  turned  a 

little  to  him,  like  cattle  at  a  dog.] 

HARNESS.     [With  a  sharp  look  round,  and  a  bow.] 

Thanks !     [He  sits — his  accent  is  slightly  nasal.]     Well, 

gentlemen,  we  're  going  to  do  business  at  last,  I  hope. 

WILDER.     Depends    on    what    you    call   business, 

Harness.     Why  don't  you  make  the  men  come  in? 

HARNESS.     [Sardonically.]     The  men  are  far  more 

in  the  right  than  you  are.     The  question  with  us  is 

whether  we  shan't  begin  to  support  them  again. 


ACTI 


Strife  181 


[He  ignores  them  all,  except  ANTHONY,  to  whom 
he  turns  in  speaking.] 

ANTHONY.  Support  them  if  you  like;  we'll  put 
in  free  labour  and  have  done  with  it. 

HARNESS.  That  won't  do,  Mr.  Anthony.  You 
can 't  get  free  labour,  and  you  know  it. 

ANTHONY.     We  shall  see  that. 

HARNESS.  I'm  quite  frank  with  you.  We  were 
forced  to  withhold  our  support  from  your  men  because 
some  of  their  demands  are  in  excess  of  current  rates. 
I  expect  to  make  them  withdraw  those  demands 
to-day:  if  they  do,  take  it  straight  from  me,  gentle- 
men, we  shall  back  them  again  at  once.  Now,  I 
want  to  see  something  fixed  upon  before  I  go  back 
to-night.  Can 't  we  have  done  with  this  old-fashioned 
tug-of-war  business?  What  good's  it  doing  you? 
Why  don't  you  recognise  once  for  all  that  these 
people  are  men  like  yourselves,  and  want  what's 
good  for  them  just  as  you  want  what's  good  for 
you —  [Bitterly.]  Your  motor-cars,  and  champagne, 
and  eight-course  dinners. 

ANTHONY.  If  the  men  will  come  in,  we'll  do 
something  for  them. 

HARNESS.  [Ironically.]  Is  that  your  opinion 
too,  sir — and  yours — and  yours?  [The  Directors 
do  not  answer.]  Well,  all  I  can  say  is:  It's  a  kind 
of  high  and  mighty  aristocratic  tone  I  thought  we'd 
grown  out  of — seems  I  was  mistaken. 

ANTHONY.  It's  the  tone  the  men  use.  Remains 
to  be  seen  which  can  hold  out  longest — they  without 
us,  or  we  without  them. 

HARNESS.  As  business  men,  I  wonder  you're 
not  ashamed  of  this  waste  of  force,  gentlemen.  You 
know  what  it  '11  all  end  in. 


1 82  Strife 


ACT  I 


ANTHONY.     What? 

HARNESS.     Compromise — it  always  does. 

SCANTLEBURY.  Can't  you  persuade  the  men  that 
their  interests  are  the  same  as  ours? 

HARNESS.  [Turning,  ironically.]  I  could  per- 
suade them  of  that,  sir,  if  they  were. 

WILDER.  Come,  Harness,  you're  a  clever  man, 
you  don't  believe  all  the  Socialistic  claptrap  that's 
talked  nowadays.  There  's  no  real  difference  be- 
tween their  interests  and  ours. 

HARNESS.  There's  just  one  very  simple  question 
I'd  like  to  put  to  you.  Will  you  pay  your  men 
one  penny  more  than  they  force  you  to  pay 
them? 

[WILDER  is  silent. 

WANKLIN.  [Chiming  in.]  I  humbly  thought  that 
not  to  pay  more  than  was  necessary  was  the  ABC 
of  commerce. 

HARNESS.  [With  irony.]  Yes,  that  seems  to 
be  the  A  B  C  of  commerce,  sir;  and  the  A  B  C  of 
commerce  is  between  your  interests  and  the  men's. 

SCANTLEBURY.  [Whispering.]  We  ought  to  ar- 
range something. 

HARNESS.  [Drily.]  Am  I  to  understand  then,  gen- 
tlemen, that  your  Board  is  going  to  make  no  conces- 
sions? 

[WANKLIN  and  WILDER  bend  forward  as  if 
to  speak,  but  stop.] 

ANTHONY.     [Nodding.]     None. 

[WANKLIN  and  WILDER  again  bend  forward, 
and  SCANTLEBURY  gives  an  unexpected 
grunt.] 

HARNESS.  You  were  about  to  say  something, 
I  believe?  [But  SCANTLEBURY  says  nothing. 


ACT  i  Strife  183 

EDGAR.  [Looking  up  suddenly.]  We're  sorry  for 
the  state  of  the  men. 

HARNESS.     [Icily.]     The  men  have  no  use  for  your 
pity,  sir.     What  they  want  is  justice. 
ANTHONY.     Then  let  them  be  just. 
HARNESS.     For  that  word  "just"  read  "humble," 
Mr.  Anthony.     Why  should  they  be  humble?     Bar- 
ring the  accident  of  money,  are  n't  they  as  good  men 
as  you? 

ANTHONY.     Cant! 

HARNESS.  Well,  I  've  been  five  years  in  America. 
It  colours  a  man 's  notions. 

SCANTLEBURY.  [Suddenly,  as  though  avenging  his 
uncompleted  grunt.]  Let's  have  the  men  in  and  hear 
what  they  've  got  to  say ! 

[ANTHONY  nods,  and  UNDERWOOD  goes  out 

by  the  single  door.] 

HARNESS.  [Drily.]  'As  I  'm  to  have  an  interview 
with  them  this  afternoon,  gentlemen,  I  '11  ask  you 
to  postpone  your  final  decision  till  that's  over. 

[Again  ANTHONY  nods,  and  taking  up  his 

glass  drinks.] 

[UNDERWOOD  comes  in  again,  followed  by 
ROBERTS,  GREEN,  BULGIN,  THOMAS,  Rous. 
They  file  in,  hat  in  hand,  and  stand  silent 
in  a  row.  ROBERTS  is  lean,  of  middle 
height,  with  a  slight  stoop.  He  has  a  little 
rat-gnawn,  brown-grey  beard,  moustaches, 
high  cheek-bones,  hollow  cheeks,  small  fiery 
eyes.  He  wears  an  old  and  grease-stained 
blue  serge  suit,  and  carries  an  old  bowler  hat. 
He  stands  nearest  the  Chairman.  GREEN, 
next  to  him,  has  a  clean,  worn  face,  with 
a  small  grey  goatee  beard  and  drooping 


1 84  Strife 


ACT  I 


moustaches,  iron  spectacles,  and  mild, 
straightforward  eyes.  He  wears  an  over- 
coat, green  with  age,  and  a  linen  collar. 
Next  to  him  is  BULGIN,  a  tall,  strong  man, 
with  a  dark  moustache,  and  fighting  jaw, 
wearing  a  red  muffler,  who  keeps  changing 
his  cap  from  one  hand  to  the  other.  Next 
to  him  is  THOMAS,  an  old  man  with  a  grey 
moustache,  full  beard,  and  weatherbeaten, 
bony  face,  whose  overcoat  discloses  a  lean, 
plucked-looking  neck.  On  his  right,  Rous, 
the  youngest  of  the  five,  looks  like  a  soldier; 
he  has  a  glitter  in  his  eyes.] 

UNDERWOOD.  [Pointing.]  There  are  some  chairs 
there  against  the  wall,  Roberts ;  won 't  you  draw  them 
up  and  sit  down? 

ROBERTS.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Underwood — we'll 
stand — in  the  presence  of  the  Board.  [He  speaks 
in  a  biting  and  staccato  voice,  rolling  his  r  's,  pronounc- 
ing his  a's  like  an  Italian  a,  and  his  consonants  short 
and  crisp.]  How  are  you,  Mr.  Harness?  Did  n't 
expect  t'  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  till  this 
afternoon. 

HARNESS.  [Steadily.]  We  shall  meet  again  then, 
Roberts. 

ROBERTS.     Glad  to  hear  that;  we  shall  have  some 
news  for  you  to  take  to  your  people. 
ANTHONY.     What  do  the  men  want? 
ROBERTS.     [Acidly.]    Beg  pardon,   I   don't  quite 
catch  the  Chairman's  remark. 

TENCH.     [From  behind  the  Chairman's  chair.]    The 

Chairman  wishes  to  know  what  the  men  have  to  say. 

ROBERTS.     It's  what  the  Board  has  to  say  we've 

come  to  hear.     It's  for  the  Board  to  speak  first. 


ACT  I 


Strife  185 


ANTHONY.     The  Board  has  nothing  to  say. 

ROBERTS.  [Looking  along  the  line  of  men.]  In 
that  case  we're  wasting  the  Directors'  time.  We'll 
be  taking  our  feet  off  this  pretty  carpet. 

[He  turns,  the  men  move  slowly,  as  though 
hypnotically  influenced.] 

WANKLIN.  [Suavely.]  Come,  Roberts,  you  did  n't 
give  us  this  long  cold  journey  for  the  pleasure  of 
saying  that. 

THOMAS.  [A  pure  Welshman.]  No,  sir,  an'  what 
I  say  iss • 

ROBERTS.  [Bitingly.]  Go  on,  Henry  Thomas,  go 
on.  You  're  better  able  to  speak  to  the — Directors 
than  me.  [THOMAS  is  silent. 

TENCH.  The  Chairman  means,  Roberts,  that  it 
was  the  men  who  asked  for  the  conference,  the 
Board  wish  to  hear  what  they  have  to  say. 

ROBERTS.  Gad!  If  I  was  to  begin  to  tell  ye  all 
they  have  to  say,  I  would  n't  be  finished  to-day. 
And  there 'd  be  some  that'd  wish  they'd  never  left 
their  London  palaces. 

HARNESS.  What's  your  proposition,  man?  Be 
reasonable. 

ROBERTS.  You  want  reason  Mr.  Harness?  Take 
a  look  round  this  afternoon  before  the  meeting.  [He 
looks  at  the  men;  no  sound  escapes  them.]  You'll  see 
some  very  pretty  scenery. 

HARNESS.    All  right  my  friend ;  you  won't  put  me  off. 

ROBERTS.  [To  the  men.]  We  shan't  put  Mr. 
Harness  off.  Have  some  champagne  with  your 
lunch,  Mr.  Harness;  you'll  want  it,  sir. 

HARNESS.     Come,  get  to  business,  man! 

THOMAS.  What  we're  asking,  look  you,  is  just 
simple  justice. 


1 86  Strife 


ACT  I 


ROBERTS.  [Venemously.]  Justice  from  London? 
What  are  you  talking  about,  Henry  Thomas?  Have 
you  gone  silly?  [THOMAS  is  silent.]  We  know  very 
well  what  we  are — discontented  dogs — never  satis- 
fied. What  did  the  Chairman  tell  me  up  in  London? 
That  I  did  n't  know  what  I  was  talking  about.  I 
was  a  foolish,  uneducated  man,  that  knew  nothing 
of  the  wants  of  the  men  I  spoke  for, 

EDGAR.     Do  please  keep  to  the  point. 

ANTHONY.  [Holding  up  his  hand.]  There  can 
only  be  one  master,  Roberts. 

ROBERTS.     Then,  be  Gad,  it'll  be  us. 

[There  is  a  silence;   ANTHONY  and  ROBERTS 
stare  at  one  another.} 

UNDERWOOD.  If  you've  nothing  to  say  to  the 
Directors,  Roberts,  perhaps  you  '11  let  Green  or 
Thomas  speak  for  the  men. 

[GREEN  and  THOMAS  look  anxiously  at  ROB- 
ERTS, at    each  other,  and  the  other  men.} 

GREEN.  [An  Englishman.}  If  I'd  been  listened 
to,  gentlemen 

THOMAS.  What  I'fe  got  to  say  iss  what  we'fe 
all  got  to  say — 

ROBERTS.     Speak  for  yourself,  Henry  Thomas. 

SCANTLEBURY.  [With  a  gesture  of  deep  spiritual 
discomfort.]  Let  the  poor  men  call  their  souls  their 
own! 

ROBERTS.  Aye,  they  shall  keep  their  souls,  for 
it's  not  much  body  that  you've  left  them,  Mr.  [with 
biting  emphasis,  as  though  the  word  were  an  offence} 
Scantlebury!  [To  the  men.}  Well,  will  you  speak, 
or  shall  I  speak  for  you? 

Rous.  [Suddenly.]  Speak  out,  Roberts,  or  leave 
it  to  others. 


ACT  I 


Strife  187 


ROBERTS.  [Ironically.]  Thank  you,  George  Rous. 
[Addressing  himself  to  ANTHONY.]  The  Chairman 
and  Board  of  Directors  have  honoured  us  by  leaving 
London  and  coming  all  this  way  to  hear  what  we've 
got  to  say;  it  would  not  be  polite  to  keep  them  any 
longer  waiting. 

WILDER.     Well,  thank  God  for  that! 

ROBERTS.  Ye  will  not  dare  to  thank  Him  when 
I  have  done,  Mr.  Wilder,  for  all  your  piety.  May 
be  your  God  up  in  London  has  no  time  to  listen  to 
the  working  man.  I'm  told  He  is  a  wealthy  God; 
but  if  he  listens  to  what  I  tell  Him,  He  will  know 
more  than  ever  He  learned  in  Kensington. 

HARNESS.  Come,  Roberts,  you  have  your  own 
God.  Respect  the  God  of  other  men. 

ROBERTS.  That's  right,  sir.  We  have  another 
God  down  here;  I  doubt  He  is  rather  different  to 
Mr.  Wilder's.  Ask  Henry  Thomas;  he  will  tell  you 
whether  his  God  and  Mr.  Wilder 's  are  the  same. 

[THOMAS  lifts  his  hand,  and  cranes  his  head 
as  though  to  prophesy.] 

WANKLIN.  For  goodness'  sake,  let  's  keep  to  the 
point,  Roberts. 

ROBERTS.  I  rather  think  it  is  the  point,  Mr.  Wank- 
lin.  If  you  can  get  the  God  of  Capital  to  walk  through 
the  streets  of  Labour,  and  pay  attention  to  what  he 
sees,  you're  a  brighter  man  than  I  take  you  for,  for 
all  that  you  're  a  Radical. 

ANTHONY.  Attend  to  me,  Roberts!  [Roberts  is 
silent.]  You  are  here  to  speak  for  the  men,  as  I  am 
here  to  speak  for  the  Board. 

[He  looks  slowly  round.] 

[WILDER,  WANKLIN,  and  SCANTLEBURY  make 
movements  of  uneasiness,  and  EDGAR  gazes 


1 88  Strife 


ACT  I 


at  the  floor.     A  faint  smile  comes  on  HAR- 
NESS'S  face.] 
Now  then,  what  is  it? 
ROBERTS.     Right,  sir! 

[Throughout  all  that  follows,  he  and  ANTHONY 
look  fixedly  upon  each  other.  Men  and 
Directors  show  in  their  various  ways  sup- 
pressed uneasiness,  as  though  listening 
to  words  that  they  themselves  would  not 
have  spoken.] 

The  men  can't  afford  to  travel  up  to  London;  and 
they  don 't  trust  you  to  believe  what  they  say  in  black 
and  white.  They  know  what  the  post  is  [he  darts 
a  look  at  UNDERWOOD  and  TENCH],  and  what  Direc- 
tors' meetings  are:  "Refer  it  to  the  manager — let 
the  manager  advise  us  on  the  men 's  condition.  Can 
we  squeeze  them  a  little  more?" 

UNDERWOOD.  [In  a  low  voice.]  Don't  hit  below 
the  belt,  Roberts! 

ROBERTS.  Is  it  below  the  belt,  Mr.  Underwood? 
The  men  know.  When  I  came  up  to  London,  I  told 
you  the  position  straight.  An'  what  came  of  it? 
I  was  told  I  did  n't  know  what  I  was  talkin'  about. 
I  can 't  afford  to  travel  up  to  London  to  be  told  that 
again. 

ANTHONY.  What  have  you  to  say  for  the  men? 
ROBERTS.  I  have  this  to  say — and  first  as  to  their 
condition.  Ye  shall  'ave  no  need  to  go  and  ask  your 
manager.  Ye  can't  squeeze  them  any  more.  Every 
man  of  us  is  well-nigh  starving.  [A  surprised  mur- 
mur rises  from  the  men.  ROBERTS  looks  round.]  Ye 
wonder  why  I  tell  ye  that?  Every  man  of  us  is  go- 
ing short.  We  can't  be  no  worse  off  than  we've 
been  these  weeks  past.  Ye  need  n't  think  that  by 


ACT  I 


Strife  189 


waiting  ye '11  drive  us  to  come  in.  We'll  die  first, 
the  whole  lot  of  us.  The  men  have  sent  for  ye  to 
know,  once  and  for  all,  whether  ye  are  going  to  grant 
them  their  demands.  I  see  the  sheet  of  paper  in 
the  Secretary's  hand.  [TENCH  moves  nervously.] 
That's  it,  I  think,  Mr.  Tench.  It's  not  very  large. 
TENCH.  [Nodding.]  Yes. 

ROBERTS.  There's  not  one  sentence  of  writing 
on  that  paper  that  we  can  do  without. 

[A  movement  amongst  the  men.       ROBERTS 

turns  on  them  sharply.] 
Isn't  that  so? 

[The  men  assent  reluctantly.     ANTHONY  takes 

from  TENCH  the  paper  and  peruses  it.] 
Not  one  single  sentence.  All  those  demands  are 
fair.  We  have  not  asked  anything  that  we  are  not 
entitled  to  ask.  What  I  said  up  in  London,  I  say 
again  now:  there  is  not  anything  on  that  piece  of 
paper  that  a  just  man  should  not  ask,  and  a  just 
man  give.  [A  pause. 

ANTHONY.  There  is  not  one  single  demand  on 
this  paper  that  we  will  grant. 

[In  the  stir  that  follows  on  these  words,  ROB- 
ERTS watches  the  Directors  and  ANTHONY 
the  men.     WILDER  gets  up  abruptly  and 
goes  over  to  the  fire.] 
ROBERTS.     D'  ye  mean  that? 
ANTHONY.     I  do. 

[WILDER  at  the  fire  makes  an  emphatic  move- 
ment of  disgust.] 

ROBERTS.  [Noting  it,  with  dry  intensity.]  Ye 
best  know  whether  the  condition  of  the  Company 
is  any  better  than  the  condition  of  the  men.  [Scan- 
ning the  Directors'  faces.]  Ye  best  know  whether 


190  Strife 


ACT! 


ye  can  afford  your  tyranny — but  this  I  tell  ye:  If 
ye  think  the  men  will  give  way  the  least  part  of  an 
inch,  ye 're  making  the  worst  mistake  ye  ever  made. 
[He  fixes  his  eyes  on  SCANTLEBURY.]  Ye  think  be- 
cause the  Union  is  not  supporting  us — more  shame 
to  it! — that  we'll  be  coming  on  our  knees  to  you 
one  fine  morning.  Ye  think  because  the  men  have 
got  their  wives  an'  families  to  think  of — that  it's 
just  a  question  of  a  week  or  two 

ANTHONY.  It  would  be  better  if  you  did  not 
speculate  so  much  on  what  we  think. 

ROBERTS.  Aye!  It's  not  much  profit  to  us!  I 
will  say  this  for  you,  Mr.  Anthony — ye  know  your 
own  mind!  [Staring  at  ANTHONY.]  I  can  reckon 
on  ye! 

ANTHONY.     [Ironically.]    I  am  obliged  to  you! 

ROBERTS.  And  I  know  mine.  I  tell  ye  this:  The 
men  will  send  their  wives  and  families  where  the 
country  will  have  to  keep  them;  an'  they  will  starve 
sooner  than  give  way.  I  advise  ye,  Mr.  Anthony, 
to  prepare  yourself  for  the  worst  that  can  happen  to 
your  Company.  We  are  not  so  ignorant  as  you 
might  suppose.  We  know  the  way  the  cat  is  jump- 
ing. Your  position  is  not  all  that  it  might  be — 
not  exactly! 

ANTHONY.  Be  good  enough  to  allow  us  to  judge 
of  our  position  for  ourselves.  Go  back,  and  recon- 
sider your  own. 

ROBERTS.  [Stepping  forward.]  Mr.  Anthony,  you 
are  not  a  young  man  now ;  from  the  time  I  remember 
anything  ye  have  been  an  enemy  to  every  man  that 
has  come  into  your  works.  I  don't  say  that  ye 're 
a  mean  man,  or  a  cruel  man,  but  ye've  grudged 
them  the  say  of  any  word  in  their  own  fate.  Ye've 


ACT  I 


Strife  191 


fought  them  down  four  times.  I've  heard  ye  say 
ye  love  a  fight — mark  my  words — ye 're  fighting 
the  last  fight  ye  '11  ever  fight — 

[TENCH   touches   ROBERTS'S   sleeve. 
UNDERWOOD.     Roberts!     Roberts! 
ROBERTS.     Roberts!     Roberts!    I  must  n't  speak 
my  mind  to  the  Chairman,  but  the  Chairman  may 
speak  his  mind  to  me ! 

WILDER.     What  are  things  coming  to? 
ANTHONY.     [With  a  grim  smile  at  WILDER.]    Go 
on,  Roberts;  say  what  you  like! 

ROBERTS.     [After  a  pause.]    I  have  no  more  to 
say. 

ANTHONY.     The  meeting  stands  adjourned  to  five 
o  'clock. 

WANKLIN.     [In  a  low  voice  to  UNDERWOOD.]    We 
shall  never  settle  anything  like  this. 

ROBERTS.     [Bitingly.]    We    thank   the    Chairman 

and  Board  of   Directors  for  their  gracious  hearing. 

[He  moves  towards  the  door;  the  men  cluster 

together    stupefied;    then    Rous,    throwing 

up  his  head,   passes  ROBERTS   and  goes 

out.     The  others  follow.] 

ROBERTS.  [With  his  hand  on  the  door — malici- 
ously.] Good  day,  gentlemen !  [He  goes  out. 
HARNESS.  [Ironically.]  I  congratulate  you  on 
the  conciliatory  spirit  that's  been  displayed.  With 
your  permission,  gentlemen,  1 11  be  with  you  again 
at  half-past  five.  Good  morning! 

[He  bows  slightly,  rests  his  eyes  on  ANTHONY, 
who  returns  his  stare  unmoved,  and,  fol- 
lowed by  UNDERWOOD,  goes  out.  There 
is  a  moment  of  uneasy  silence.  UNDER- 
WOOD reappears  in  the  doorway.] 


1 92  Strife 


ACT  I 


WILDER.     [With  emphatic  disgust.]    Well! 

[The  double-doors  are  opened. 

ENID.     [Standing    in     the    doorway.]     Lunch     is 
ready. 

[EDGAR,  getting  up  abruptly,  walks  out  past 

his  sister.] 

WILDER.     Coming  to  lunch,  Scantlebury? 
SCANTLEBURY.     [Rising    heavily.]     I    suppose    so, 
I  suppose  so.     It's  the  only  thing  we  can  do. 

[They  go  out  through  the  double-doors. 

WANKLIN.     [In  a  low  voice.]    Do  you  really  mean 

to  fight  to  a  finish,  Chairman?  [ANTHONY  nods. 

WANKLIN.     Take  care!    The  essence  of  things  is 

to  know  when  to  stop. 

[ANTHONY  does  not  answer. 

WANKLIN.     [Very  gravely.]     This  way  disaster  lies. 
The  ancient  Trojans  were  fools  to  your  father,  Mrs. 
Underwood.          [He  goes  out  through  the  double-doors. 
ENID.     I  want  to  speak  to  father,  Frank. 

[UNDERWOOD  follows  WANKLIN  out.    TENCH, 
passing  round  the  table,  is  restoring  order 
to  the  scattered  pens  and  papers.] 
ENID.     Are  n't  you  coming,  Dad? 

[ANTHONY    shakes    his    head.     ENID    looks 

meaningly  at  TENCH.] 

ENID.     Won't  you   go  and  have  some  lunch,  Mr. 
Tench? 

TENCH.     [With  papers  in  his  hand.]    Thank  you, 
ma  'am,  thank  you !  [He  goes  slowly,  looking  back. 

ENID.     [Shutting  the  doors.]     I  do  hope  it's  settled, 
Father! 

ANTHONY.     No! 

ENID.     [Very  disappointed.]     Oh!     Have  n't    you 
done  anything?  [ANTHONY  shakes  his  head. 


ACTl 


Strife  193 


ENID.  Frank  says  they  all  want  to  come  to  a 
jompromise,  really,  except  that  man  Roberts. 

ANTHONY.     I  don't. 

ENID.  It's  such  a  horrid  position  for  us.  If  you 
were  the  wife  of  the  manager,  and  lived  down  here, 
and  saw  it  all.  You  can 't  realise,  Dad ! 

ANTHONY.     Indeed? 

ENID.  We  see  all  the  distress.  You  remember 
my  maid  Annie,  who  married  Roberts?  [ANTHONY 
nods.}  It's  so  wretched,  her  heart's  weak;  since 
the  strike  began,  she  has  n't  even  been  getting  proper 
food.  I  know  it  for  a  fact,  Father. 

ANTHONY.  Give  her  what  she  wants,  poor 
woman ! 

ENID.  Roberts  won't  let  her  take  anything  from 
us. 

ANTHONY.  [Staring  before  him.]  I  can't  be  an- 
swerable for  the  men 's  obstinacy. 

ENID.  They're  all  suffering.  Father!  Do  stop  it, 
for  my  sake ! 

ANTHONY.  [With  a  keen  look  at  her,]  You  don't 
understand,  my  dear. 

ENID.     If  I  were  on  the  Board,  I'd  do  something. 

ANTHONY.     What  would  you  do? 

ENID.  It's  because  you  can't  bear  to  give  way. 
It's  so 

ANTHONY.     Well? 

ENID.     So  unnecessary. 

ANTHONY.  What  do  you  know  about  necessity? 
Read  your  novels,  play  your  music,  talk  your  talk, 
but  don't  try  and  tell  me  what's  at  the  bottom  of  a 
struggle  like  this. 

ENID.     I  live  down  here,  and  see  it. 

ANTHONY.     What  d'  you  imagine  stands  between 


1 94  Strife 


ACT  I 


you  and  your  class  and  these  men  that  you're  so 
sorry  for? 

ENID.  [Coldly.]  I  don't  know  what  you  mean, 
Father. 

ANTHONY.  In  a  few  years  you  and  your  children 
would  be  down  in  the  condition  they're  in,  but  for 
those  who  have  the  eyes  to  see  things  as  they  are 
and  the  backbone  to  stand  up  for  themselves. 

ENID.     You  don't  know  the  state  the  men  are  in. 

ANTHONY.     I  know  it  well  enough. 

ENID.  You  don't,  Father;  if  you  did,  you 
would  n't 

ANTHONY.  It's  you  who  don't  know  the  simple 
facts  of  the  position.  What  sort  of  mercy  do  you 
suppose  you'd  get  if  no  one  stood  between  you  and 
the  continual  demands  of  labour?  This  sort  of 
mercy —  [  He  puts  his  hand  up  to  his  throat  and 
squeezes  it.]  First  would  go  your  sentiments,  my 
dear;  then  your  culture,  and  your  comforts  would  be 
going  all  the  time! 

ENID.     I  don't  believe  in  barriers  between  classes. 

ANTHONY.  You — don 't — believe — in — barriers — 
between  the  classes? 

ENID.  [Coldly.]  And  I  don't  know  what  that 
has  to  do  with  this  question. 

ANTHONY.  It  will  take  a  generation  or  two  for 
you  to  understand. 

ENID.  It's  only  you  and  Roberts,  Father,  and 
you  know  it!  [ANTHONY  thrusts  out  his  lower  lip.] 
It  11  ruin  the  Company. 

ANTHONY.     Allow  me  to  judge  of  that. 

ENID.  [Resentfully.]  I  won't  stand  by  and  let 
poor  Annie  Roberts  suffer  like  this!  And  think  of 
the  children,  Father!  I  warn  you. 


ACT  I 


Strife  195 


ANTHONY.  [With  a  grim  smile.]  What  do  you 
propose  to  do? 

ENID.     That's  my  affair. 

[ANTHONY  only  looks  at  her. 

ENID.  [In  a  changed  voice,  stroking  his  sleeve.] 
Father,  you  know  you  ought  n't  to  have  this  strain 
on  you — you  know  what  Dr.  Fisher  said ! 

ANTHONY.  No  old  man  can  afford  to  listen  to 
old  women. 

ENID.  But  you  have  done  enough,  even  if  it  really 
is  such  a  matter  of  principle  with  you. 

ANTHONY.     You  think  so? 

ENID.  Don't  Dad!  [Her  face  works.]  You — you 
might  think  of  us  ! 

ANTHONY.     I  am. 

ENID.     It'll  break  you  down. 

ANTHONY.  [Slowly.]  My  dear,  I  am  not  going 
to  funk;  on  that  you  may  rely. 

[Re-enter  TENCH  with  papers;  he  glances  at 
them,  then  plucking  up  courage.] 

TENCH.     Beg  pardon,  Madam,  I  think  I  'd  rather  see 
these  papers  were  disposed  of  before  I  get  my  lunch. 
[ENID,    after   an   impatient   glance   at   him, 
looks  at  her  father,   turns  suddenly,   and 
goes  into  the  drawing-room.] 

TENCH.  [Holding  the  papers  and  a  pen  to  ANTHONY, 
very  nervously.]  Would  you  sign  these  for  me,  please 
sir?  [ANTHONY  takes  the  pen  and  signs. 

TENCH.  [Standing  with  a  sheet  of  blotting-paper 
behind  EDGAR'S  chair,  begins  speaking  nervously.] 
I  owe  my  position  to  you,  sir. 

ANTHONY.     Well? 

TENCH.  I'm  obliged  to  see  everything  that's 
going  on,  sir;  I — I  depend  upon  the  Company 


196  Strife 


AC?  1 


entirely.  If  anything  were  to  happen  to  it,  it  'd  be 
disastrous  for  me.  [ANTHONY  nods.]  And,  of  course, 
my  wife's  just  had  another;  and  so  it  makes  me 
doubly  anxious  just  now.  And  the  rates  are  really 
terrible  down  our  way. 

ANTHONY.  [With  grim  amusement.]  Not  more 
terrible  than  they  are  up  mine. 

TENCH.  No,  sir?  [Very  nervously.]  I  know  the 
Company  means  a  great  deal  to  you,  sir. 

ANTHONY.     It  does;  I  founded  it. 

TENCH.  Yes,  sir.  If  the  strike  goes  on  it'll  be 
very  serious.  I  think  the  Directors  are  beginning 
to  realise  that,  sir. 

ANTHONY.     [Ironically.]    Indeed? 

TENCH.  I  know  you  hold  very  strong  views,  sir, 
and  it 's  always  your  habit  to  look  things  in  the  face ; 
but  I  don't  think  the  Directors — like  it,  sir,  now 
they — they  see  it. 

ANTHONY.     [Grimly.]    Nor  you,  it  seems. 

TENCH.  [With  the  ghost  of  a  smile.]  No,  sir; 
of  course  I've  got  my  children,  and  my  wife's  deli- 
cate; in  my  position  I  have  to  think  of  these  things. 
[ANTHONY  nods.]  It  was  n  't  that  I  was  going  to  say, 
sir,  if  you  '11  excuse  me  [hesitates] 

ANTHONY.     Out  with  it,  then! 

TENCH.  I  know — from  my  own  father,  sir,  that 
when  you  get  on  in  life  you  do  feel  things  dreadfully — 

ANTHONY.  [Almost  paternally.]  Come,  out  with 
it,  Trench! 

TENCH.     I  don 't  like  to  say  it,  sir. 

ANTHONY.     [Stonily.]    You  must. 

TENCH.  [After  a  pause,  desperately  bolting  it  out.] 
I  think  the  Directors  are  going  to  throw  you  over, 
sir. 


ACT  I 


Strife  197 


ANTHONY.     [Sits  in  silence.]    Ring  the  bell! 

[TENCH  nervously  rings  the  bell  and  stands 

by  the  fire.] 

TENCH.  Excuse  me  for  saying  such  a  thing.  I 
was  only  thinking  of  you,  sir. 

[FROST  enters  from  the  hall,  he  comes  to  the 
foot  of  the  table,  and  looks  at  ANTHONY; 
TENCH  covers  his  nervousness  by  arrang- 
ing papers.} 

ANTHONY.     Bring  me  a  whiskey  and  soda. 
FROST.     Anything  to  eat,  sir? 

[ANTHONY  shakes  his  head.    FROST  goes  to 

the  sideboard,  and  prepares  the  drink.} 
TENCH.  [In  a  low  voice,  almost  supplicating.} 
If  you  could  see  your  way,  sir,  it  would  be  a  great 
relief  to  my  mind,  it  would  indeed.  [He  looks  up 
at  ANTHONY,  who  has  not  moved.}  It  does  make  me 
so  very  anxious.  I  have  n  't  slept  properly  for  weeks, 
sir,  and  that 's  a  fact. 

[ANTHONY    looks   in   his  face,    then   slowly 

shakes  his  head.} 

TENCH.  [Disheartened.}  No,  sir?  [He  goes  on 
arranging  papers.  FROST  places  the  whiskey  and 
soda  on  a  salver  and  puts  it  down  by  ANTHONY'S 
right  hand.  He  stands  away,  looking  gravely  at 
ANTHONY.] 

FROST.     Nothing  I  can  get  you,  sir? 

[ANTHONY  shakes  his  head. 
You're  aware,  sir,  of  what  the  doctor  said,  sir? 
ANTHONY.     I  am. 

[A  pause.     FROST  suddenly  moves  closer  to 

him,  and  speaks  in  a  low  voice.} 
FROST.     This  strike,  sir;  puttin'  all  this  strain  on 
you.     Excuse  me,  sir,  is  it — is  it  worth  it,  sir? 


198  Strife 


ACT  I 


[ANTHONY  mutters  some  words  that  are  in- 
audible.,] 
Very  good,  sir! 

[He  turns  and  goes  out  into  the  hall.  TENCH 
makes  two  attempts  to  speak;  but  meeting 
his  Chairman's  gaze  he  drops  his  eyes, 
and,  turning  dismally,  he  too  goes  out. 
ANTHONY  is  left  alone.  He  grips  the  glass, 
tilts  it,  and  drinks  deeply;  then  sets  it 
down  with  a  deep  and  rumbling  sigh,  and 
leans  back  in  his  chair.] 

The  curtain  falls. 


ACT  II 
SCENE  I 

It  is  half -past  three.  In  the  kitchen  of  Roberts's  cot- 
tage a  meagre  little  -fire  is  burning.  The  room  is 
clean  and  tidy,  very  barely  furnished,  with  a  brick 
floor  and  white-washed  walls,  much  stained  with 
smoke.  There  is  a  kettle  on  the  fire.  A  door  op- 
posite the  fireplace  opens  inward  from  a  snowy 
street.  On  the  wooden  table  are  a  cup  and  saucer, 
a  teapot,  knife,  and  plate  of  bread  and  cheese. 
Close  to  the  fireplace  in  an  old  arm-chair,  wrapped 
in  a  rug,  sits  MRS.  ROBERTS,  a  thin  and  dark- 
haired  woman  about  thirty-five,  with  patient  eyes. 
Her  hair  is  not  done  up,  but  tied  back  with  a 
piece  of  ribbon.  By  the  fire,  too,  is  MRS.  YEO; 
a  red-haired,  broad-faced  person.  Sitting  near 
the  table  is  MRS.  Rous,  an  old  lady,  ashen-white, 
with  silver  hair ;  by  the  door,  standing,  as  if  about 
to  go,  is  MRS.  BULGIN,  a  little  pale,  pinched-up 
woman.  In  a  chair,  with  her  elbows  resting  on 
the  table,  and  her  face  resting  in  her  hands,  sits 
MADGE  THOMAS,  a  good-looking  girl,  of  twenty- 
two,  with  high  cheekbones,  deep-set  eyes,  and  dark 
untidy  hair.  She  is  listening  to  the  talk,  but  she 
neither  speaks  nor  moves. 

MRS.  YEO.     So  he  give  me  a  sixpence,  and  that's 
199 


200  Strife 


ACT  II 


the  first  bit  o'  money  /  seen  this  week.  There  an't 
much  'eat  to  this  fire.  Come  and  warm  yerself ,  Mrs. 
Rous,  you're  lookin'  as  white  as  the  snow,  you  are. 

MRS.  Rous.  [Shivering — placidly.]  Ah!  but 
the  winter  my  old  man  was  took  was  the  proper 
winter.  Seventy-nine  that  was,  when  none  of  you 
was  hardly  born — not  Madge  Thomas,  nor  Sue  Bul- 
gin.  [Looking  at  them  in  turn.]  Annie  Roberts, 
'ow  old  were  you,  dear? 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     Seven,  Mrs.  Rous. 

MRS.  Rous.  Seven — well,  ther'!  A  tiny  little 
thing! 

MRS.  YEO.  [Aggressively.]  Well,  I  was  ten  my- 
self, I  remembers  it. 

MRS.  Rous.  [Placidly.]  The  Company  had  n't 
been  started  three  years.  Father  was  workin'  on 
the  acid,  that's  'ow  he  got  'is  pisoned  leg.  I  kep' 
sayin'  to  'im,  "Father,  you've  got  a  pisoned  leg." 
"Well,"  'e  said,  "Mother,  pison  or  no  pison,  I  can't 
afford  to  go  a-layin'  up."  An'  two  days  after,  he 
was  on  'is  back,  and  never  got  up  again.  It  was 
Providence !  There  was  n't  none  o'  these  Compensa- 
tion Acts  then. 

MRS.  YEO.  Ye  had  n't  no  strike  that  winter! 
[With  grim  humour.]  This  winter  's  'ard  enough  for 
me.  Mrs.  Roberts,  you  don't  want  no  'arder  winter, 
do  you?  Would  n't  seem  natural  to  'ave  a  dinner, 
would  it,  Mrs.  Bulgin? 

MRS.  BULGIN.  We  've  had  bread  and  tea  last  four 
days. 

MRS.  YEO.     You  got  that  Friday's  laundry  job? 

MRS.  BULGIN.  [Dispiritedly.]  They  said  they  'd 
give  it  me,  but  when  I  went  last  Friday,  they  were  full 
up.  I  got  to  go  again  next  week. 


SC.   I 


Strife  201 


MRS.  YEO.  Ah!  There 's  too  many  after  that.  I 
send  Yeo  out  on  the  ice  to  put  on  the  gentry's  skates 
an'  pick  up  what  'e  can.  Stops  'im  from  broodin' 
about  the  'ouse. 

MRS.  BULGIN.  [In  a  desolate,  matter-of-fact  voice.] 
Leavin'  out  the  men — it 's  bad  enough  with  the 
children.  I  keep  'em  in  bed,  they  don't  get  so 
hungry  when  they  're  not  running  about;  but  they  're 
that  restless  in  bed  they  worry  your  life  out. 

MRS.  YEO.  You  're  lucky  they  're  all  so  small.  It 
's  the  goin'  to  school  that  makes  'em  'ungry.  Don't 
Bulgin  give  you  awythin'? 

MRS.  BULGIN.  [Shakes  her  head,  then,  as  though  by 
afterthought.]  Would  if  he  could,  I  s'pose. 

MRS.  YEO.  [Sardonically.]  What!  'Ave  n't  'e 
got  no  shares  in  the  Company? 

MRS.  Rons.  [Rising  with  tremulous  cheerfulness.] 
Well,  good-bye,  Annie  Roberts,  I  'm  going  along 
home. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  Stay  an'  have  a  cup  of  tea,  Mrs. 
Rous? 

MRS.  Rous.  [With  the  faintest  smile.]  Roberts  '11 
want  'is  tea  when  he  comes  in.  I  '11  just  go  an'  get  to 
bed ;  it 's  warmer  there  than  anywhere. 

[She  moves  very  shakily  towards  the  door. 

MRS.  YEO.  [Rising  and  giving  her  an  arm.]  Come 
on,  Mother,  take  my  arm;  we  're  all  going'  the  same 
way. 

MRS.  Rous.  [Taking  the  arm.]  Thank  you,  my 
dearies!  [THEY  go  out,  followed  by  MRS.  BULGIN. 

MADGE.  [Moving  for  the  first  time.]  There,  Annie, 
you  see  that!  I  told  George  Rous,  "Don't  think  to 
have  my  company  till  you  've  made  an  end  of  all  this 
trouble.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed,"  I  said,  "with 


202  Strife 


ACT  I 


your  own  mother  looking  like  a  ghost,  and  not  a  stick 
to  put  on  the  fire.  So  long  as  you  're  able  to  fill  your 
pipes,  you'll  let  us  starve."  "I'll  take  my  oath, 
Madge,"  he  said,  "I  've  not  had  smoke  nor  drink  these 
three  weeks!"  "Well,  then,  why  do  you  go  on  with 
it?"  "I  can't  go  back  on  Roberts!"  .  .  .  That's 
it!  Roberts,  always  Roberts!  They'd  all  drop  it 
but  for  him.  When  he  talks  it 's  the  devil  that  comes 
into  them. 

[A  silence.  MRS.  ROBERTS  makes  a  movement  of 
pain.]  Ah !  You  don't  want  him  beaten !  He 's 
your  man.  With  everybody  like  their  own  shadows ! 
[She  makes  a  gesture  towards  MRS.  ROBERTS.]  If  Rous 
wants  me  he  must  give  up  Roberts.  If  he  gave  him 
up — they  all  would.  They  're  only  waiting  for  a  lead. 
Father  's  against  him — they  're  all  against  him  in 
their  hearts. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  You  won't  beat  Roberts!  [They 
look  silently  at  each  other.] 

MADGE.  Won't  I  ?  The  cowards — when  their  own 
mothers  and  their  own  children  don't  know  where  to 
turn. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     Madge! 

MADGE.  [Looking  searchingly  at  MRS.  ROBERTS.] 
I  wonder  he  can  look  you  in  the  face.  [She  squats  before 
the  fire,  with  her  hands  out  to  the  flame.]  Harness  is 
here  again.  They  11  have  to  make  up  their  minds 
to-day. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [In  a  soft,  slow  voice,  with  a  slight 
West-country  burr.]  Roberts  will  never  give  up 
the  furnacemen  and  engineers.  'T  would  n't  be 
right. 

MADGE.  You  can't  deceive  me.  It 's  just  his 
pride. 


SC.  I 


Strife  203 


[A  tapping  at  the  door  is  heard,  the  women  turn 
as  ENID  enters.  She  wears  a  round  fur  cap, 
and  a  jacket  of  squirrel's  fur.  She  closes 
the  door  behind  her. 

ENID.     Can  I  come  in,  Annie? 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [Flinching.]  Miss  Enid!  Give  Mrs. 
Underwood  a  chair,  Madge! 

[MADGE  gives  ENID  the  chair  she  has  been 
sitting  on.] 

ENID.     Thank  you! 

ENID.     Are  you  any  better? 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     Yes,  M'm;  thank  you,  M'm. 

ENID.  [Looking  at  the  sullen  MADGE  as  though  re- 
questing her  departure.]  Why  did  you  send  back  the 
jelly?  I  call  that  really  wicked  of  you! 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  Thank  you,  M'm,  I  'd  no  need  for 
it. 

ENID.  Of  course!  It  was  Roberts's  doing,  was  n't 
it?  How  can  he  let  all  this  suffering  go  on  amongst 
you? 

MADGE.     [Suddenly.]    What  suffering? 

ENID.     [Surprised.]     I  beg  your  pardon! 

MADGE.     Who  said  there  was  suffering? 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     Madge! 

MADGE.  [Throwing  her  shawl  over  her  head.]  Please 
to  let  us  keep  ourselves  to  ourselves.  We  don't  want 
you  coming  here  and  spying  on  us. 

ENID.  [Confronting  her,  but  without  rising]  I 
did  n't  speak  to  you. 

MADGE.  [In  a  low,  fierce  voice.]  Keep  your  kind 
feelings  to  yourself.  You  think  you  can  come 
amongst  us,  but  you  're  mistaken.  Go  back  and  tell 
the  Manager  that. 

ENID.     [Stonily]    This  is  not  your  house. 


204  Strife 


ACT  II 


MADGE.  [Turning  to  the  door.]  No,  it  is  not  my 
house ;  keep  clear  of  my  house,  Mrs.  Underwood. 

[She  goes  out.     ENID  taps  her  fingers  on  the  table. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  Please  to  forgive  Madge  Thomas, 
M'm;  she  's  a  bit  upset  to-day.  [A  pause. 

ENID.  [Looking  at  her.]  Oh,  I  think  they  're  so 
stupid,  all  of  them. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     [With  a  faint  smile].     Yes,  M'm. 

ENID.     Is  Roberts  out  ? 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     Yes,  M'm. 

ENID.  It  is  his  doing,  that  they  don't  come  to 
an  agreement.  Now  is  n't  it,  Annie? 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [Softly,  with  her  eyes  on  ENID, 
and  moving  the  fingers  of  one  hand  continually  on  her 
breast.}  They  do  say  that  your  father,  M'm 

ENID.  My  father  's  getting  an  old  man,  and  you 
know  what  old  men  are. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     I  am  sorry,  M'm. 

ENID.  [More  softly.]  I  don't  expect  you  to  feel 
sorry,  Annie.  I  know  it 's  his  fault  as  well  as  Roberts's. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  I  'm  sorry  for  any  one  that  gets 
old,  M'm;  it  's  dreadful  to  get  old,  and  Mr.  Anthony 
was  such  a  fine  old  man  I  always  used  to  think. 

ENID.  [Impulsively.]  He  always  liked  you,  don't 
you  remember?  Look  here,  Annie,  what  can  I  do? 
I  do  so  want  to  know.  You  don't  get  what  you 
ought  to  have.  [Going  to  the  fire,  she  takes  the  kettle 
off,  and  looks  for  coals.]  And  you  're  so  naughty  send- 
ing back  the  soup  and  things ! 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     [With  a  faint  smile.]  Yes,  M'm? 

ENID.  [Resentfully.]  Why,  you  have  n't  even  got 
coals  ? 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  If  you  please,  M'm,  to  put  the 
kettle  on  again;  Roberts  won't  have  long  for  his  tea 


SC.  I 


Strife  205 


when  he  comes  in.  He's  got  to  meet  the  men  at 
four. 

ENID.  [Putting  the  kettle  on.]  That  means  he'll 
lash  them  into  a  fury  again.  Can't  you  stop  his 
going,  Annie?  [MRS.  ROBERTS  smiles  ironically.] 
Have  you  tried?  [A  silence.]  Does  he  know  how 
ill  you  are? 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     It 's  only  my  weak  'eart,  M'm. 

ENID.  You  used  to  be  so  well  when  you  were  with 
us. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [Stiffening.]  Roberts  is  always 
good  to  me. 

ENID.  But  you  ought  to  have  everything  you 
want,  and  you  have  nothing! 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [Appealingly.]  They  tell  me  I 
don't  look  like  a  dyin '  woman  ? 

ENID.  Of  course  you  don't;  if  you  could  only  have 
proper —  Will  you  see  my  doctor  if  I  send  him  to 
you?  I 'm  sure  he 'd  do  you  good. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [With  faint  questioning.']  Yes, 
M'm. 

ENID.  Madge  Thomas  ought  n't  to  come  here; 
she  only  excites  you.  As  if  I  did  n't  know  what 
suffering  there  is  amongst  the  men!  I  do  feel  for 
them  dreadfully,  but  you  know  they  have  gone  too 
far. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [Continually  moving  her  fingers.] 
They  say  there 's  no  other  way  to  get  better  wages, 
M'm. 

ENID.  [Earnestly.}  But,  Annie,  that's  why  the 
Union  won't  help  them.  My  husband 's  very  sympa- 
thetic with  the  men,  but  he  says  they  re  not  under- 
paid. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     No,  M'm? 


206  Strife 


ACT  II 


ENID.  They  never  think  how  the  Company  could 
go  on  if  we  paid  the  wages  they  want. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [With  an  effort.]  But  the  divi- 
dends having  been  so  big,  M'm. 

ENID.  [Taken  aback.]  You  all  seem  to  think  the 
shareholders  are  rich  men,  but  they're  not — most 
of  them  are  really  no  better  off  than  working  men. 
[MRS.  ROBERTS  smiles.]  They  have  to  keep  up 
appearances. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     Yes,  M'm? 

ENID.  You  don't  have  to  pay  rates  and  taxes, 
and  a  hundred  other  things  that  they  do.  If  the 
men  did  n't  spend  such  a  lot  in  drink  and  betting 
they'd  be  quite  well  off! 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  They  say,  workin'  so  hard,  they 
must  have  some  pleasure. 

ENID.     But  surely  not  low  pleasure  like  that. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [A  little  resentfully.]  Roberts 
never  touches  a  drop;  and  he's  never  had  a  bet  in 
his  life. 

ENID.  Oh !  but  he  's  not  a  com I  mean  he  's 

an  engineer — a  superior  man. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  Yes,  M'm.  Roberts  says  they  've 
no  chance  of  other  pleasures. 

ENID.     [Musing.]     Of  course,  I  know  it 's  hard. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [With  a  spice  of  malice.]  And 
they  say  gentlefolk 's  just  as  bad. 

ENID.  [With  a  smile.]  I  go  as  far  as  most  people, 
Annie,  but  you  know,  yourself,  that  's  nonsense. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [With  painful  effort.]  A  lot  'o 
the  men  never  go  near  the  Public;  but  even  they 
don't  save  but  very  little,  and  that  goes  if  there's 
illness. 

ENID.     But  they've  got  their  clubs,  have  n't  they? 


SC.  I 


Strife  207 


MRS.  ROBERTS.  The  clubs  only  give  up  to  eighteen 
shillin's  a  week,  M'm,  and  it's  not  much  amongst 
a  family.  Roberts  says  workin'  folk  have  always 
lived  from  hand  to  mouth.  Sixpence  to-day  is  worth 
more  than  a  shillin'  to-morrow,  that's  what  they 
say. 

ENID.     But  that 's  the  spirit  of  gambling. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [With  a  sort  of  excitement.]  Rob- 
erts says  a  working  man's  life  is  all  a  gamble,  from 
the  time  'e  's  born  to  the  time  'e  dies. 

[ENID  leans  forward,  interested.  MRS.  ROB- 
ERTS goes  on  with  a  growing  excitement 
that  culminates  in  the  personal  feeling  of 
the  last  words.] 

He  says,  M'm,  that  when  a  working  man's  baby  is 
born,  it 's  a  toss-up  from  breath  to  breath  whether  it 
ever  draws  another,  and  so  on  all  'is  life;  an'  when 
he  comes  to  be  old,  it 's  the  workhouse  or  the  grave. 
He  says  that  without  a  man  is  very  near,  and  pinches 
and  stints  'imself  and  'is  children  to  save,  there  can't 
be  neither  surplus  nor  security.  That's  why  he 
would  n  't  have  no  children  [she  sinks  back],  not 
though  I  wanted  them. 

ENID.     Yes,  yes,  I  know! 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  No  you  don't,  M'm.  You've 
got  your  children,  and  you'll  never  need  to  trouble 
for  them. 

ENID.  [Gently.]  You  ought  n't  to  be  talking  so 
much,  Annie.  [Then,  in  spite  of  herself.]  But  Roberts 
was  paid  a  lot  of  money,  was  n't  he,  for  discovering 
that  process? 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [On  the  defensive.]  All  Roberts's 
savin's  have  gone.  He  's  always  looked  forward 
to  this  strike.  He  says  he's  no  right  to  a  farthing 


208  Strife 


ACT  II 


when  the  others  are  suffering.  'T  is  n't  so  with  all 
o'  them!  Some  don't  seem  to  care  no  more  than 
that — so  long  as  they  get  their  own. 

ENID.  I  don't  see  how  they  can  be  expected  to 
when  they  're  suffering  like  this.  [In  a  changed 
voice.]  But  Roberts  ought  to  think  of  you!  It's 
all  terrible!  The  kettle's  boiling.  Shall  I  make 
the  tea?  [She  takes  the  teapot  and,  seeing  tea  there, 
pours  water  into  it.]  Won't  you  have  a  cup? 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  No,  thank  you,  M'm.  [She  is 
listening,  as  though  for  footsteps.]  I'd  sooner  you 
did  n't  see  Roberts,  M'm,  he  gets  so  wild. 

ENID.  Oh!  but  I  must,  Annie;  I'll  be  quite  calm, 
I  promise. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  It 's  life  an'  death  to  him, 
M'm. 

ENID.  [Very  gently.]  I'll  get  him  to  talk  to  me 
outside,  we  won't  excite  you. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     [Faintly.]    No,  M'm. 

[She   gives    a   violent   start.     ROBERTS    has 
come  in,  unseen.] 

ROBERTS.  [Removing  his  hat — with  subtle  mockery.] 
Beg  pardon  for  coming  in;  you're  engaged  with  a 
lady,  I  see. 

ENID.     Can  I  speak  to  you,  Mr.  Roberts? 

ROBERTS.  Whom  have  I  the  pleasure  of  addressing, 
Ma'am? 

ENID.  But  surely  you  know  me !  I  'm  Mrs.  Under- 
wood. 

ROBERTS.  [With  a  bow  of  malice.]  The  daughter 
of  our  Chairman. 

ENID.  [Earnestly.]  I've  come  on  purpose  to 
speak  to  you ;  will  you  come  outside  a  minute  ? 

[She  looks  at  MRS.  ROBERTS. 


SC.  I 


Strife  209 


ROBERTS.  [Hanging  up  his  hat.}  I  have  nothing 
to  say,  Ma'am. 

ENID.     But  I  must  speak  to  you,  please. 

[She  moves  towards  the  door. 

ROBERTS.  [With  sudden  venom.]  I  have  not 
the  time  to  listen! 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     David! 

ENID.     Mr.  Roberts,  please! 

ROBERTS.  [Taking  off  his  overcoat.]  I  am  sorry 
to  disoblige  a  lady — Mr.  Anthony 's  daughter. 

ENID.  [Wavering,  then  with  sudden  decision.]  Mr. 
Roberts,  I  know  you  've  another  meeting  of  the  men. 

[ROBERTS  bows. 

I  came  to  appeal  to  you.  Please,  please,  try  to  come 
to  some  compromise;  give  way  a  little,  if  it's  only  for 
your  own  sakes ! 

ROBERTS.  [Speaking  to  himself.]  The  daughter 
of  Mr.  Anthony  begs  me  to  give  way  a  little,  if  it 's 
only  for  our  own  sakes! 

ENID.  For  everybody's  sake;  for  your  wife's 
sake. 

ROBERTS.  For  my  wife's  sake,  for  everybody's 
sake — for  the  sake  of  Mr.  Anthony. 

ENID.  Why  are  you  so  bitter  against  my  father? 
He  has  never  done  anything  to  you. 

ROBERTS.     Has  he  not? 

ENID.  He  can't  help  his  views,  any  more  than 
you  can  help  yours. 

ROBERTS.  I  really  did  n't  know  that  I  had  a  right 
to  views! 

ENID.     He's  an  old  man,  and  you 

[Seeing  his  eyes  fixed  on  her,  she  stops. 

ROBERTS.  [Without  raising  his  voice.]  If  I  saw 
Mr.  Anthony  going  to  die,  and  I  could  save  him  by 


210  Strife 


ACT  II 


lifting  my  hand,  I  would  not  lift  the  little  finger  of 
it. 

ENID.    You — you —   [She  stops  again,  biting  her  lips. 

ROBERTS.     I  would  not,  and  that's  flat! 

ENID.  [Coldly.]  You  don't  mean  what  you  say, 
and  you  know  it ! 

ROBERTS.     I  mean  every  word  of  it. 

ENID.     But  why? 

ROBERTS.  [With  a  flash.]  Mr.  Anthony  stands 
for  tyranny!  That's  why! 

ENID.     Nonsense! 

[MRS.  ROBERTS  makes  a  movement  as  if  to 
rise,  but  sinks  back  in  her  chair.] 

ENID.     [With  an  impetuous  movement.]     Annie ! 

ROBERTS.     Please  not  to  touch  my  wife! 

ENID.  [Recoiling  with  a  sort  of  horror.]  I  believe 
— you  are  mad. 

ROBERTS.  The  house  of  a  madman  then  is  not 
the  fit  place  for  a  lady. 

ENID.     I  'm  not  afraid  of  you. 

ROBERTS.  [Bowing.]  I  would  not  expect  the 
daughter  of  Mr.  Anthony  to  be  afraid.  Mr.  Anthony 
is  not  a  coward  like  the  rest  of  them. 

ENID.  [Suddenly.]  I  suppose  you  think  it  brave, 
then,  to  go  on  with  the  struggle. 

ROBERTS.  Does  Mr.  Anthony  think  it  brave  to 
fight  against  women  and  children?  Mr.  Anthony 
is  a  rich  man,  I  believe;  does  he  think  it  brave  to 
fight  against  those  who  have  n't  a  penny?  Does  he 
think  it  brave  to  set  children  crying  with  hunger, 
an'  women  shivering  "with  cold? 

ENID.  [Putting  up  her  hand,  as  though  warding 
off  a  blow.]  My  father  is  acting  on  his  principles, 
and  you  know  it ! 


SC.  I 


Strife  2n 


ROBERTS.     And  so  am  I! 

ENID.  You  hate  us;  and  you  can't  bear  to  be 
beaten! 

ROBERTS.  Neither  can  Mr.  Anthony,  for  all  that 
he  may  say. 

ENID.  At  any  rate  you  might  have  pity  on  your 
wife. 

[MRS.    ROBERTS  who  has  her  hand  pressed 
to  her  heart,   takes  it  away,  and  tries  to 
calm  her  breathing.] 
ROBERTS.     Madam,  I  have  no  more  to  say. 

[He  takes  up  the  loaf.     There  is  a  knock  at 
the  door,  and  UNDERWOOD  comes  in.     He 
stands  looking  at  them,  ENID  turns  to  him, 
then  seems  undecided.] 
UNDERWOOD.     Enid! 

ROBERTS.  [Ironically.]  Ye  were  not  needing  to 
come  for  your  wife,  Mr.  Underwood.  We  are  not 
rowdies. 

UNDERWOOD.  I  know  that,  Roberts.  I  hope 
Mrs.  Roberts  is  better. 

[ROBERTS  turns  away  without  answering. 
Come,  Enid! 

ENID.  I  make  one  more  appeal  to  you,  Mr.  Rob- 
erts, for  the  sake  of  your  wife. 

ROBERTS.  [With  polite  malice.]  If  I  might  advise 
ye,  Ma'am — make  it  for  the  sake  of  your  husband 
and  your  father. 

[ENID,  suppressing  a  retort,  goes  out.  UNDER- 
WOOD opens  the  door  for  her  and  follows. 
ROBERTS,  going  to  the  fire,  holds  out  his 
hands  to  the  dying  glow.] 

ROBERTS.  How  goes  it,  my  girl?  Feeling  better, 
are  you? 


212  Strife 


ACT  II 


[MRS.  ROBERTS  smiles  faintly.     He  brings  his 

overcoat  and  wraps  it  round  her.] 

[Looking  at  his  watch.}  Ten  minutes  to  four!  [As 
though  inspired.]  I've  seen  their  faces,  there's  no 
fight  in  them,  except  for  that  one  old  robber. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  Won't  you  stop  and  eat,  David? 
You've  'ad  nothing  all  day! 

ROBERTS.  [Putting  his  hand  to  his  throat.]  Can't 
swallow  till  those  old  sharks  are  out  o'  the  town. 
[He  walks  up  and  down.]  I  shall  have  a  bother  with 
the  men — there's  no  heart  in  them,  the  cowards. 
Blind  as  bats,  they  are — can't  see  a  day  before  their 
noses. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     It's  the  women,  David. 

ROBERTS.  Ah!  So  they  say!  They  can  remem- 
ber the  women  when  their  own  bellies  speak!  The 
women  never  stop  them  from  the  drink;  but  from 
a  little  suffering  to  themselves  in  a  sacred  cause, 
the  women  stop  them  fast  enough. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     But  think  o'  the  children,  David. 

ROBERTS.  Ah!  If  they  will  go  breeding  them- 
selves for  slaves,  without  a  thought  o'  the  future 
o'  them  they  breed 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [Gasping.]  That 's  enough,  David ; 
don't  begin  to  talk  of  that — I  won't — I  can't 

ROBERTS.     [Staring  at  her.]     Now,  now,  my  girl! 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [Breathlessly.]  No,  no,  David — 
I  won't! 

ROBERTS.  There,  there!  Come,  come!  That's 
right!  [Bitterly.]  Not  one  penny  will  they  put  by 
for  a  day  like  this.  Not  they!  Hand  to  mouth — 
Gad! — I  know  them!  They've  broke  my  heart. 
There  was  no  holdin'  them  at  the  start,  but  now 
the  pinch  'as  come. 


SO,  I 


Strife  213 


MRS.  ROBERTS.  How  can  you  expect  it,  David? 
They  're  not  made  of  iron. 

ROBERTS.  Expect  it?  Wouldn't  I  expect  what 
I  would  do  meself  ?  Would  n't  I  starve  an'  rot 
rather  than  give  in  ?  What  one  man  can  do,  another 
can. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     And  the  women? 
ROBERTS.     This  is  not  women's  work. 
MRS.    ROBERTS.     [With   a  flash   of   malice.]    No, 
the  women  may  die  for  all  you  care.     That's  their 
work. 

ROBERTS.    [Averting  his  eyes.]     Who  talks  of  dy- 
ing?    No  one  will  die  till  we  have   beaten  these — 
[He  meets  her   eyes   again,  and  again  turns 

his  away.     Excitedly.] 

This  is  what  I  've  been  waiting  for  all-  these  months. 
To  get  the  old  robbers  down,  and  send  them  home 
again  without  a  farthin's  worth  o'  change.  I  Ve 
seen  their  faces,  I  tell  you,  in  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  defeat. 

[He  goes  to  the  peg  and  takes  down  his  hat. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     [Following  with  her  eyes — softly.] 

Take  your  overcoat,  David;  it  must  be  bitter  cold. 

ROBERTS.     [Coming  up  to  her — his  eyes  are  furtive.] 

No,    no!     There,    there,    stay    quiet    and    warm.     I 

won't  be  long,  my  girl. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [With  soft  bitterness]  You  'd  bet- 
ter take  it. 

[She  lifts  the  coat.  But  ROBERTS  puts  it 
back,  and  wraps  it  round  her.  He  tries 
to  meet  her  eyes,  but  cannot.  MRS.  ROBERTS 
stays  huddled  in  the  coat,  her  eyes,  that 
follow  him  about,  are  half  malicious,  half 
yearning.  He  looks  at  his  watch  again, 


214  Strife 


ACT  It 


and  turns  to  go.     In  the  doorway  he  meets 
JAN  THOMAS,  a  boy  of  ten  in  clothes  too 
big  for  him,  carrying  a  penny  whistle.] 
ROBERTS.     Hallo,  boy! 

[He  goes.  JAN  stops  within  a  yard  of  MRS. 
ROBERTS,  and  stares  at  her  without  a 
word.] 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     Well,  Jan! 

JAN.     Father   's  coming;  sister  Madge  is  coming. 

[He  sits  at   the   table,   and  fidgets  with  his 

whistle;  he  blows  three  vague  notes',  then 

imitates  a  cuckoo.] 

[There  is  a  tap  on  the  door.    Old  THOMAS 

comes  in.] 

THOMAS.  A  very  coot  tay  to  you,  Ma'am.  It 
is  petter  that  you  are. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.    Thank  you,  Mr.  Thomas. 
THOMAS.     [Nervously.]     Roberts  in? 
MRS.  ROBERTS.    Just  gone  on  to  the  meeting,  Mr. 
Thomas. 

THOMAS.  [With  relief,  becoming  talkative.]  This 
is  fery  unfortunate,  look  you!  I  came  to  tell  him 
that  we  must  make  terms  with  London.  It  is  a  fery 
great  pity  he  is  gone  to  the  meeting.  He  will  be 
kicking  against  the  pricks,  I  am  thinking. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [Half  rising.]  He'll  never  give 
in,  Mr.  Thomas. 

THOMAS.  You  must  not  be  fretting,  that  is  very 
pat  for  you.  Look  you,  there  iss  hartly  any  mans 
for  supporting  him  now,  but  the  engineers  and  George 
Rous.  [Solemnly.]  This  strike  is  no  longer  coing 
with  Chapel,  look  you!  I  have  listened  carefully, 
an'  I  have  talked  with  her.  QAN  blows.]  Sst! 
I  don't  care  what  th'  others  say,  I  say  that  Chapel 


SC.  I 


Strife  215 


means  us  to  be  stopping  the  trouple,  that  is  what  I 
make  of  her;  and  it  is  my  opinion  that  this  is  the  fery 
best  thing  for  all  of  us.  If  it  was  n't  my  opinion, 
I  ton't  say — but  it  is  my  opinion,  look  you. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [Trying  to  suppress  her  excite- 
ment.} I  don't  know  what '11  come  to  Roberts, 
if  you  give  in. 

THOMAS.  It  iss  no  disgrace  whateffer!  All  that 
a  mortal  man  coult  do  he  hass  tone.  It  iss  against 
Human  Nature  he  hass  gone;  fery  natural — any 
man  may  do  that;  but  Chapel  has  spoken  and  he 
must  not  go  against  her.  QAN  imitates  the  cuckoo.] 
Ton't  make  that  squeaking!  [Going  to  the  door.] 
Here  iss  my  daughter  come  to  sit  with  you.  A  fery 
goot  day,  Ma'am — no  fretting — rememper! 

[MADGE  comes  in  and  stands  at  the  open  door, 

watching  the  street.] 

MADGE.  You'll  be  late,  Father;  they're  begin- 
ning. [She  catches  him  by  the  sleeve.]  For  the  love 
of  God,  stand  up  to  him,  Father — this  time ! 

THOMAS.  [Detaching  his  sleeve  with  dignity.]  Leave 
me  to  do  what's  proper,  girl! 

[He  goes  out.     MADGE,  in  the  centre  of  the 
open  doorway,  slowly  moves  in,  as  though 
before  the  approach  of  some  one.] 
Rous.     [Appearing  in  the  doorway.}     Madge! 

[MADGE  stands  with  her  back  to  MRS.  ROBERTS, 
staring  at  him  with  her  head  up  and  her 
hands  behind  her.} 

Rous.  [Who  has  a  fierce  distracted  look.]  Madge! 
I  'm  going  to  the  meeting. 

[MADGE,  without  moving,  smiles  contemptu- 
ously] 
D'  ye  hear  me?  [They  speak  in  quick  low  voices. 


216  Strife 


ACT  H 


MADGE.  I  hear!  Go,  and  kill  your  own  mother, 
if  you  must. 

[Rous  seizes  her  by  both  her  arms.  She 
stands  rigid,  with  her  head  bent  back. 
He  releases  her,  and  he  too  stands  motion- 
less.] 

Rous.  I  swore  to  stand  by  Roberts.  I  swore 
that!  Ye  want  me  to  go  back  on  what  I've 
sworn. 

MADGE.     [With   slow   soft   mockery.]    You    are    a 
pretty  lover ! 
Rous.     Madge! 

MADGE.     [Smiling.]    I've    heard    that    lovers    do 
what  their  girls  ask  them — [JAN  sounds  the  cuckoo's 
notes] — but  that 's  not  true,  it  seems ! 
Rous.     You 'd  make  a  blackleg  of  me ! 
MADGE.     [With   her   eyes   half-closed.]     Do   it   for 
me! 

Rous.  [Dashing  his  hand  across  his  brow.]  Damn! 
I  can't! 

MADGE.     [Swiftly.]    Do  it  for  me! 
Rous.     [Through  his  teeth.]    Don't  play  the  wan- 
ton with  me! 

MADGE.  [With  a  movement  of  her  hand  towards 
JAN — quick  and  low.]  I  would  be  that  for  the  child- 
ren's  sake! 

Rous.     [In  a  fierce  whisper.]    Madge!  Oh,  Madge! 
MADGE.     [With    soft    mockery.]     But    you    can't 
break  your  word  for  me ! 

Rous.     [With    a    choke.]     Then,    Begod,    I    can! 

[He  turns  and  rushes  off. 
[MADGE  stands,  with  a  faint  smile  on  her 
face,  looking  after  him.     She  turns  to  MRS. 
ROBERTS.] 


SC.  I 


Strife  217 


MADGE.     I  have  done  for  Roberts! 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     [Scornfully.]    Done  for  my  man, 

with  that !  [She  sinks  back. 

MADGE.  [Running  to  her,  and  feeling  her  hands.] 
You're  as  cold  as  a  stone!  You  want  a  drop  of 
brandy.  Jan,  run  to  the  "Lion";  say,  I  sent  you 
for  Mrs.  Roberts. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [With  a  feeble  movement.]  I'll 
just  sit  quiet,  Madge.  Give  Jan — his — tea. 

MADGE.  [Giving  JAN  a  slice  of  bread.]  There, 
ye  little  rascal.  Hold  your  piping.  [Going  to  the 
fire,  she  kneels.]  It's  going  out. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.  [With  a  faint  smile.]  'T  is  all 
the  same!  QAN  begins  to  blow  his  whistle. 

MADGE.     Tsht!  Tsht! — you QAN  stops. 

MRS.  ROBERTS.     [Smiling.]     Let  'im  play,  Madge. 
MADGE.     [On  her  knees  at  the  fire,  listening.]     Wait- 
ing an'  waiting.     I've  no  patience  with  it;  waiting 
an'  waiting — that's  what  a  woman  has  to  do!     Can 
you  hear  them  at  it — I  can ! 

QAN  begins  again  to  play  his  whistle;  MADGE 
gets  up;  half  tenderly  she  ruffles  his  hair; 
then,  sitting,  leans  her  elbows  on  the  table, 
and  her  chin  on  her  hands.  Behind  her, 
on  MRS.  ROBERTS 's  face  the  smile  has 
changed  to  horrified  surprise.  She  makes 
a  sudden  movement,  sitting  forward,  press- 
ing her  hands  against  her  breast.  Then 
slowly  she  sinks  back;  slowly  her  face  loses 
the  look  of  pain,  the  smile  returns.  She 
fixes  her  eyes  again  on  JAN,  and  moves 
her  lips  and  finger  to  the  tune.] 

The  curtain  falls. 


218  Strife 

SCENE  II 

It  is  past  four.  In  a  grey,  failing  light,  an  open  muddy 
space  is  crowded  with  workmen.  Beyond,  divided 
from  it  by  a  barbed-wire  fence,  is  the  raised  towing- 
path  of  a  canal,  on  which  is  moored  a  barge.  In  the 
distance  are  marshes  and  snow-covered  hills.  The 
"Works"  high  wall  runs  from  the  canal  across  the 
open  space,  and  in  the  angle  of  this  wall  is  a  rude 
platform  of  barrels  and  boards.  On  it,  HARNESS 
is  standing.  ROBERTS,  a  little  apart  from  the 
crowd,  leans  his  back  against  the  wall.  On  the 
raised  towing-path  two  bargemen  lounge  and 
smoke  indifferently. 

HARNESS.  [Holding  out  his  hand.]  Well,  I  've 
spoken  to  you  straight.  If  I  speak  till  to-morrow  I 
can't  say  more. 

JAGO.  [A  dark,  sallow,  Spanish-looking  man  with 
a  short,  thin  beard.]  Mister,  want  to  ask  you!  Can 
they  get  blacklegs? 

BULGIN.     [Menacing.]    Let  'em  try. 

[There  are  savage  murmurs  from  the  crowd. 

BROWN.  [A  round-faced  man.]  Where  could  they 
get  'em  then? 

EVANS.  [A  small,  restless,  harassed  man,  with  a 
fighting  face.]  There's  always  blacklegs;  it's  the 
nature  of  'em.  There  's  always  men  that  '11  save 
their  own  skins. 

[Another  savage  murmur.  There  is  a  move- 
ment, and  old  THOMAS,  joining  the  crowd, 
takes  his  stand  in  front.] 

HARNESS.  [Holding  up  his  hand.]  They  can't  get 
them.  But  that  won't  help  you.  Now  men,  be 
reasonable.  Your  demands  would  have  brought  on 


SC.  II 


Strife  219 


us  the  burden  of  a  dozen  strikes  at  a  time  when  we 
were  not  prepared  for  them.  The  Unions  live  by 
Justice,  not  to  one,  but  all.  Any  fair  man  will  tell 
you — you  were  ill-advised!  I  don't  say  you  go  too 
far  for  that  which  you  're  entitled  to,  but  you  're 
going  too  far  for  the  moment;  you  've  dug  a  pit  for 
yourselves.  Are  you  to  stay  there,  or  are  you  to 
climb  out?  Come! 

LEWIS.  [A  clean-cut  Welshman  with  a  dark  mous- 
tache.] You  've  hit  it,  Mister!  Which  is  it  to  be? 

[Another  movement  in  the  crowd,  and  Rous, 
coming  quickly,  takes  his  stand  next 
THOMAS.] 

HARNESS.  Cut  your  demands  to  the  right  pattern, 
and  we  '11  see  you  through ;  refuse,  and  don't  expect 
me  to  waste  my  time  coming  down  here  again.  I  'm 
not  the  sort  that  speaks  at  random,  as  you  ought  to 
know  by  this  time.  If  you  're  the  sound  men  I  take 
you  for — no  matter  who  advises  you  against  it — [he 
fixes  his  eyes  on  ROBERTS]  you  '11  make  up  your  minds 
to  come  in,  and  trust  to  us  to  get  your  terms.  Which 
is  it  to  be?  Hands  together,  and  victory — or — the 
starvation  you  've  got  now? 

[A  prolonged  murmur  from  the  crowd. 

JAGO.     [Sullenly.]     Talk  about  what  you  know. 

HARNESS.  [Lifting  his  voice  above  the  murmur.] 
Know?  [With  cold  passion.]  All  that  you  've  been 
through,  my  friend,  I  've  been  through — I  was 
through  it  when  I  was  no  bigger  than  [pointing  to  a 
youth]  that  shaver  there ;  the  Unions  then  were  n't 
what  they  are  now.  What's  made  them  strong? 
It 's  hands  together  that 's  made  them  strong.  I  've 
been  through  it  all,  I  tell  you,  the  brand  's  on  my  soul 
yet.  I  know  what  you  've  suffered — there  's  nothing 


220  Strife 


ACT  II 


you  can  tell  me  that  I  don't  know;  but  the  whole  is 
greater  than  the  part,  and  you  are  only  the  part. 
Stand  by  us,  and  we  will  stand  by  you. 

[Quartering  them  with  his  eyes,  he  waits.  The 
murmuring  swells;  the  men  form  little 
groups.  GREEN,  BULGIN,  and  LEWIS  talk 
together.] 

LEWIS.     Speaks  very  sensible,  the  Union  chap. 

GREEN.  [Quietly.]  Ah!  if  I  'd  a  been  listened  to, 
you  'd  'ave  'card  sense  these  two  months  past. 

[The  bargemen  are  seen  laughing. 

LEWIS.  [Pointing.]  Look  at  those  two  blanks 
over  the  fence  there! 

BULGIN.  [With  gloomy  violence.]  They  'd  best 
stop  their  cackle,  or  I  '11  break  their  jaws. 

JAGO.  [Suddenly.]  You  say  the  furnace  men 's 
paid  enough? 

HARNESS.  I  did  not  say  they  were  paid  enough; 
I  said  they  were  paid  as  much  as  the  furnace  men 
in  similar  works  elsewhere. 

EVANS.  That's  a  lie!  [Hubbub.]  What  about 
Harper's? 

HARNESS.  [With  cold  irony.]  You  may  look  at 
home  for  lies,  my  man.  Harper's  shifts  are  longer, 
the  pay  works  out  the  same. 

HENRY  Rous.  [A  dark  edition  of  his  brother 
George.}  Will  ye  support  us  in  double  pay  overtime 
Saturdays? 

HARNESS.     Yes,  we  will. 

JAGO.     What  have  ye  done  with  our  subscriptions? 

HARNESS.  [Coldly.]  I  have  told  you  what  we 
will  do  with  them. 

EVANS.  Ah!  will,  it's  always  will!  Ye 'd  have 
our  mates  desert  us.  [Hubbub. 


SC.  II 


Strife  221 


BULGIN.     [Shouting.]    Hold  your  row! 

[EVANS  looks  round  angrily. 

HARNESS.  [Lifting  his  voice.]  Those  who  know 
their  right  hands  from  their  lefts  know  that  the  Unions 
are  neither  thieves  nor  traitors.  I  've  said  my  say. 
Figure  it  out,  my  lads ;  when  you  want  me  you  know 
where  I  shall  be. 

[He  jumps  down,  the  crowd  gives  way,  he 
passes  through  them,  and  goes  away.  A 
BARGEMAN  looks  after  him  jerking  his  pipe 
with  a  derisive  gesture.  The  men  close 
up  in  groups,  and  many  looks  are  cast 
at  ROBERTS,  who  stands  alone  against  the 
wall.] 

EVANS.  He  wants  ye  to  turn  blacklegs,  that 's 
what  he  wants.  He  wants  ye  to  go  back  on  us. 
Sooner  than  turn  blackleg — I  'd  starve,  I  would. 

BULGIN.  Who  's  talkin'  o'  blacklegs — mind  what 
you  're  saying,  will  you? 

BLACKSMITH.  [A  youth  with  yellow  hair  and  huge 
arms.}  What  about  the  women? 

EVANS.  They  can  stand  what  we  can  stand,  I 
suppose,  can't  they? 

BLACKSMITH.     Ye  've  no  wife? 
EVANS.     An'  don't  want  one! 
THOMAS.     [Raising  his  voice.]    Aye!    Give  us  the 
power  to  come  to  terms  with  London,  lads. 

DAVIES.  [A  dark,  slow-fly,  gloomy  man.]  Go  up 
the  platform,  if  you  got  anything  to  say,  go  up  an' 
say  it. 

[There are  cries  of  "Thomas!"  He  is  pushed 
towards  the  platform;  he  ascends  it  with 
difficulty,  and  bares  his  head,  waiting  for 
silence.  A  hush.] 


222  Strife 


ACT  II 


RED-HAIRED  YOUTH.  [Suddenly.]  Coot  old  Thomas ! 
[A  hoarse  laugh;  the  bargemen  exchange  re- 
marks; a  hush  again,  and  THOMAS  begins 
speaking.] 

THOMAS.  We  are  all  in  the  tepth  together,  and  it 
iss  Nature  that  has  put  us  there. 

HENRY  Rous.     It's  London  put  us  there! 

EVANS.     It 's  the  Union. 

THOMAS.  It  iss  not  Lonton;  nor  it  iss  not  the 
Union — it  iss  Nature.  It  iss  no  disgrace  whateffer  to 
a  potty  to  give  in  to  Nature.  For  this  Nature  iss  a 
f ery  pig  thing ;  it  is  pigger  than  what  a  man  is.  There 
iss  more  years  to  my  hett  than  to  the  hett  of  any 
one  here.  It  is  fery  pat,  look  you,  this  coing  against 
Nature.  It  is  pat  to  make  other  potties  suffer, 
when  there  is  nothing  to  pe  cot  py  it. 

[A  laugh.  THOMAS  angrily  goes  on. 
What  are  ye  laughing  at?  It  is  pat,  I  say!  We  are 
fighting  for  a  principle;  there  is  no  potty  that  shall 
say  I  am  not  a  peliever  in  principle.  Putt  when 
Nature  says  "  No  further, "  then  it  is  no  coot  snapping 
your  fingers  in  her  face. 

[A   laugh  from  ROBERTS,  and  murmurs  of 

approval.] 

This  Nature  must  pe  humorfc.  It  is  a  man's  pisiness 
to  pe  pure,  honest,  just,  and  merciful.  That 's  what 
Chapel  tells  you.  [To  ROBERTS,  angrily.]  And, 
look  you,  David  Roberts,  Chapel  tells  you  ye  can  do 
that  without  coing  against  Nature. 

JAGO.     What  about  the  Union? 

THOMAS.  I  ton't  trust  the  Union ;  they  haf  treated 
'i*  tike  tirt.  "Do  what  we  tell  you,"  said  they.  I 
/iaf  peen  captain  of  the  furnace-men  twenty  years, 
and  I  say  to  the  Union — [excitedly] — "Can  you  tell 


SC.  II 


Strife  223 


me  then,  as  well  as  I  can  tell  you,  what  iss  the  right 
wages  for  the  work  that  these  men  do?"  For  fife 
and  twenty  years  I  haf  paid  my  moneys  to  the 
Union  and — [with  great  excitement] — for  nothings! 
What  iss  that  but  roguery,  for  all  that  this  Mr. 
Harness  says!  [Murmurs. 

EVANS.     Hear,  hear. 

HENRY  Rous.  Get  on  with  you!  Cut  on  with  it 
then! 

THOMAS.  Look  you,  if  a  man  toes  not  trust  me, 
am  I  coing  to  trust  him? 

JAGO.     That 's  right. 

THOMAS.  Let  them  alone  for  rogues,  and  act  for 
ourselves.  [Murmurs. 

BLACKSMITH.  That 's  what  we  been  doin',  have  n't 
we? 

THOMAS.  [With  increased  excitement.]  I  wass 
brought  up  to  do  for  meself.  I  wass  brought  up  to 
go  without  a  thing,  if  I  hat  not  moneys  to  puy  it. 
There  iss  too  much,  look  you,  of  doing  things  with 
other  people's  moneys.  We  haf  fought  fair,  and  if 
we  haf  peen  beaten,  it  iss  no  fault  of  ours.  Gif  us  the 
power  to  make  terms  with  London  for  ourself ;  if  we 
ton't  succeed,  I  say  it  iss  petter  to  take  our  peating 
like  men,  than  to  tie  like  togs,  or  hang  on  to  others' 
coat-tails  to  make  them  do  our  pisiness  for  us ! 

EVANS.     [Muttering.]    Who  wants  to? 

THOMAS.  [Craning.]  What 's  that?  If  I  stand 
up  to  a  potty,  and  he  knocks  me  town,  I  am  not  to 
go  hollering  to  other  potties  to  help  me;  I  am  to 
stand  up  again;  and  if  he  knocks  me  town  properly, 
I  am  to  stay  there,  isn't  that  right?  [Laughter. 

JAGO.     No   Union ! 

HENRY  Rous.     Union!         [Others  take  up  the  shout. 


224  Strife 


ACT  II 


EVANS.     Blacklegs! 

[BULGIN   and   the   BLACKSMITH   shake  their 

fists  at  EVANS.] 

THOMAS.  [With  a  gesture.]  I  am  an  olt  man, 
look  you.  [A  sudden  silence,  then  murmurs  again. 

LEWIS.     Olt  fool,  with  his  "No  Union!" 
BULGIN.     Them  furnace  chaps!     For  twopence  I  'd 
smash  the  faces  o'  the  lot  of  them. 

GREEN.     If  I  'd  a  been  listened  to  at  the  first — 
THOMAS.     [Wiping  his  brow.]    I  'm  comin'  now  to 

what  I  was  coing  to  say 

DAVIES.     [Muttering.]    An'  time  too! 
THOMAS.     [Solemnly.]    Chapel   says:   Ton't   carry 
on  this  strife!     Put  an  end  to  it! 

JAGO.     That 's  a  lie!     Chapel  says  go  on! 
THOMAS.     [Scornfully.]    Inteet!     I  haf  ears  to  my 
head. 

RED-HAIRED  YOUTH.     Ah!  long  ones!        [A  laugh. 
JAGO.     Your  ears  have  misbeled  you  then. 
THOMAS.     [Excitedly.]    Ye  cannot  be  right  if  I  am, 
ye  cannot  haf  it  both  ways. 

RED-HAIRED  YOUTH.     Chapel  can  though! 

["The  Shaver"   laughs;  there  are  murmurs 

from  the  crowd.] 

THOMAS.  [Fixing  his  eyes  on  "  The  Shaver. "]  Ah! 
ye  're  coing  the  roat  to  tamnation.  An'  so  I  say  to 
all  of  you.  If  ye  co  against  Chapel  I  will  not  pe 
with  you,  nor  will  any  other  Got-fearing  man. 

[He  steps  down  from  the  platform.  JAGO 
makes  his  way  towards  it.  There  are  cries 
of  "Don't  let  'im  go  up!"} 

JAGO.  Don't  let  him  go  up?  That 's  free  speech, 
that  is.  [He  goes  up.]  I  ain't  got  much  to  say  to  you. 
Look  at  the  matter  plain;  ye  've  come  the  road  this 


SC.  II 


Strife  225 


far,  and  now  you  want  to  chuck  the  journey.  We  've 
all  been  in  one  boat;  and  now  you  want  to  pull  in 
two.  We  engineers  have  stood  by  you;  ye  're  ready 
now,  are  ye,  to  give  us  the  go-by?  If  we  'd  a-known 
that  before,  we  'd  not  a-started  out  with  you  so  early 
one  bright  morning!  That 's  all  I  've  got  to  say. 
Old  man  Thomas  a'n't  got  his  Bible  lesson  right.  If 
you  give  up  to  London,  or  to  Harness,  now,  it 's 
givin'  us  the  chuck — to  save  your  skins — you  won't 
get  over  that,  my  boys ;  it 's  a  dirty  thing  to  do. 

[He  gets  down;  during  his  little  speech,  which 
is  ironically  spoken,  there  is  a  restless  dis- 
comfort in  the  crowd.     Rous,  stepping  for- 
ward, jumps  on  the  platform.     He  has  an 
air  of  fierce  distraction.     Sullen  murmurs 
of  disapproval  from  the  crowd.] 
Rous.     [Speaking  with  great  excitement.]     I'm  no 
blanky  orator,  mates,  but  wot  I  say  is  drove  from 
me.     What  I  say  is  yuman  nature.     Can  a  man  set 
an '  see  'is  mother  starve  ?     Can  'e  now  ? 
ROBERTS.     [Starting  forward.]     Rous! 
Rous.     [Staring    at    him    fiercely.]     Sim     'Arness 
said  fair !     I  've  changed  my  mind ! 

ROBERTS.     Ah!    Turned  your  coat  you  mean! 

[The  crowd  manifests  a  great  surprise. 
LEWIS.     [Apostrophising    Rous.]     Hallo!    What's 
turned  him  round? 

Rous.  [Speaking  with  intense  excitement.]  'E  said 
fair.  "Stand  by  us,"  'e  said,  "and  we'll  stand  by 
you."  That's  where  we've  been  makin'  our  mis- 
take this  long  time  past ;  and  who 's  to  blame  for 't  ? 
[He  points  at  ROBERTS.]  That  man  there!  "No," 
'e  said,  "fight  the  robbers,"  'e  said,  "squeeze  the 
breath  out  o'  them!"  But  it's  not  the  breath  out 


226  Strife 


ACT  II 


o'  them  that's  being  squeezed;  it's  the  breath  out 
of  us  and  ours,  and  that's  the  book  of  truth.  I'm 
no  orator,  mates,  it 's  the  flesh  and  blood  in  me  that's 
speakin',  it's  the  heart  o'  me.  [With  a  menacing, 
yet  half-ashamed  movement  towards  ROBERTS.]  He'll 
speak  to  you  again,  mark  my  words,  but  don't  ye 
listen.  [The  crowd  groans.]  It's  hell  fire  that's 
on  that  man's  tongue.  [ROBERTS  is  seen  laughing.] 
Sim  'Arness  is  right.  What  are  we  without  the 
Union — handful  o'  parched  leaves — a  puff  o'  smoke. 
I'm  no  orator,  but  I  say:  Chuck  it  up!  Chuck  it 
up!  Sooner  than  go  on  starving  the  women  and 
the  children. 

[The  murmurs  of  acquiescence  almost  drown 

the  murmurs  of  dissent.] 

EVANS.     What's  turned  you  to  blacklegging? 
Rous.     [With  a  furious  look.]     Sim  'Arness  knows 
what  he's  talking  about.     Give  us  power  to  come 
to  terms  with  London;  I'm  no  orator,  but  I  say — 
have  done  wi'  this  black  misery! 

[He  gives  his  muffler  a  twist,  jerks  his  head 
back,  and  jumps  off  the  platform.  The 
crowd  applauds  and  surges  forward.  Amid 
cries  of  "That's  enough!"  "Up  Union!" 
"  Up  Harness! "  ROBERTS  quietly  ascends 
the  platform.  There  is  a  moment  of 
silence.] 

BLACKSMITH.     We  don't  want  to  hear  you.    Shut 
it! 

HENRY  Rous.     Get  down! 

[Amid  such  cries  they  surge  towards  the  plat- 
form.] 

EVANS.      [Fiercely.]      Let    'im   speak!      Roberts! 
Roberts' 


sc.  n 


Strife  227 


BULGIN.  [Muttering.]  He'd  better  look  out  that 
I  don't  crack  his  skull. 

[ROBERTS  faces  the  crowd,  probing  them 
with  his  eyes  till  they  gradually  become 
silent.  He  begins  speaking.  One  of  the 
bargemen  rises  and  stands.] 

ROBERTS.  You  don't  want  to  hear  me,  then? 
You'll  listen  to  Rous  and  to  that  old  man,  but  not 
to  me.  You'll  listen  to  Sim  Harness  of  the  Union 
that 's  treated  you  so  fair;  maybe  you  '11  listen  to  those 
men  from  London?  Ah!  You  groan!  What  for? 
You  love  their  feet  on  your  necks,  don't  you?  [Then 
as  BULGIN  elbows  his  way  towards  the  platform,  with 
calm  pathos.]  You'd  like  to  break  my  jaw,  John 
Bulgin.  Let  me  speak,  then  do  your  smashing, 
if  it  gives  you  pleasure.  [BULGIN  stands  motionless 
and  sullen.]  Am  I  a  liar,  a  coward,  a  traitor?  If 
only  I  were,  ye'd  listen  to  me,  I'm  sure.  [The 
murmurings  cease,  and  there  is  now  dead  silence.] 
Is  there  a  man  of  you  here  that  has  less  to  gain  by 
striking?  Is  there  a  man  of  you  that  had  more 
to  lose?  Is  there  a  man  of  you  that  has  given  up 
eight  hundred  pounds  since  this  trouble  here  began? 
Come  now,  is  there?  How  much  has  Thomas  given 
up — ten  pounds  or  five,  or  what?  You  listened 
to  him,  and  what  had  he  to  say?  "None  can  pre- 
tend," he  said,  "that  I'm  not  a  believer  in  principle 
— [with  biting  irony] — but  when  Nature  says :  '  No 
further,  't  es  going  agenst  Nature. ' '  7  tell  you 
if  a  man  cannot  say  to  Nature:  "Budge  me  from 
this  if  ye  can!" — [with  a  sort  of  exaltation] — his  prin- 
ciples are  but  his  belly.  "Oh,  but,"  Thomas  says, 
"a  man  can  be  pure  and  honest,  just  and  merciful, 
and  take  off  his  hat  to  Nature!"  7  tell  you  Nature's 


228  Strife 


ACT  II 


neither  pure  nor  honest,  just  nor  merciful.  You 
chaps  that  live  over  the  hill,  an'  go  home  dead  beat 
in  the  dark  on  a  snowy  night — don't  ye  fight  your 
way  every  inch  of  it?  Do  ye  go  lyin'  down  an' 
trustin'  to  the  tender  mercies  of  this  merciful  Nature  ? 
Try  it  and  you'll  soon  know  with  what  ye've  got 
to  deal.  'T  es  only  by  that — [he  strikes  a  blow 
with  his  clenched  fist] — in  Nature 's  face  that  a  man 
can  be  a  man.  "  Give  in, "  says  Thomas,  "  go  down 
on  your  knees;  throw  up  your  foolish  fight,  an' 
perhaps, "  he  said,  "  perhaps  your  enemy  will  chuck 
you  down  a  crust. " 

JAGO.     Never! 

EVANS.     Curse  them! 

THOMAS.     I  nefer  said  that. 

ROBERTS.  [Bitingly.]  If  ye  did  not  say  it,  man, 
ye  meant  it.  An'  what  did  ye  say  about  Chapel? 
"Chapel's  against  it,"  ye  said.  "She's  against  it!" 
Well,  if  Chapel  and  Nature  go  hand  in  hand,  it's 
the  first  I've  ever  heard  of  it.  That  young  man 
there — [pointing  to  Rous] — said  I  'ad  'ell  fire  on 
my  tongue.  If  I  had  I  would  use  it  all  to  scorch 
and  wither  this  talking  of  surrender.  Surrender- 
ing 's  the  work  of  cowards  and  traitors. 

HENRY  Rous.  [As  GEORGE  Rous  moves  forward.] 
Go  for  him,  George — don't  stand  his  lip! 

ROBERTS.  [Flinging  out  his  finger.]  Stop  there, 
George  Rous,  it's  no  time  this  to  settle  personal 
matters.  [Rous  stops.]  But  there  was  one  other 
spoke  to  you — Mr.  Simon  Harness.  We  have  not 
much  to  thank  Mr.  Harness  and  the  Union  for. 
They  said  to  us  "Desert  your  mates,  or  we'll  de- 
sert you.  "  An'  they  did  desert  us. 

EVANS.     They  did. 


SC.  II 


Strife  229 


ROBERTS.  Mr.  Simon  Harness  is  a  clever  man, 
but  he  has  come  too  late.  [With  intense  conviction.] 
For  all  that  Mr.  Simon  Harness  says,  for  all  that 
Thomas,  Rons,  for  all  that  any  man  present  here 
can  say — We  've  won  the  fight! 

[The  crowd  sags  nearer,  looking  eagerly  up. 

With  withering  scorn.} 

You've  felt  the  pinch  o't  in  your  bellies.  You've 
forgotten  what  that  fight  'as  been;  many  times  I 
have  told  you;  I  will  tell  you  now  this  once  again. 
The  fight  o'  the  country's  body  and  blood  against 
a  blood-sucker.  The  fight  of  those  that  spend  them- 
selves with  every  blow  they  strike  and  every  breath 
they  draw,  against  a  thing  that  fattens  on  them, 
and  grows  and  grows  by  the  law  of  merciful  Nature. 
That  thing  is  Capital!  A  thing  that  buys  the  sweat 
o'  men's  brows,  and  the  tortures  o'  their  brains, 
at  its  own  price.  Dont  I  know  that?  Wasn't 
the  work  o'  my  brains  bought  for  seven  hundred 
pounds,  and  has  n't  one  hundred  thousand  pounds 
been  gained  them  by  that  seven  hundred  without 
the  stirring  of  a  finger.  It  is  a  thing  that  will  take 
as  much  and  give  you  as  little  as  it  can.  That's 
Capital!  A  thing  that  will  say — "I'm  very  sorry 
for  you,  poor  fellows — you  have  a  cruel  time  of  it, 
I  know, "  but  will  not  give  one  sixpence  of  its  divi- 
dends to  help  you  have  a  better  time.  That's 
Capital!  Tell  me,  for  all  their  talk,  is  there  one  of 
them  that  will  consent  to  another  penny  on  the 
Income  Tax  to  help  the  poor?  That's  Capital! 
A  white-faced,  stony-hearted  monster!  Ye  have 
got  it  on  its  knees;  are  ye  to  give  up  at  the  last 
minute  to  save  your  miserable  bodies  pain?  When 
I  went  this  morning  to  those  old  men  from  London, 


230  Strife 


ACT  II 


I  looked  into  their  very  'earts.  One  of  them  was 
sitting  there — Mr.  Scantlebury,  a  mass  of  flesh 
nourished  on  us:  sittin'  there  for  all  the  world  like 
the  shareholders  in  this  Company,  that  sit  not  mov- 
ing tongue  nor  finger,  takin'  dividends — a  great 
dumb  ox  that  can  only  be  roused  when  its  food  is 
threatened.  I  looked  into  his  eyes  and  I  saw  he 
was  afraid — afraid  for  himself  and  his  dividends, 
afraid  for  his  fees,  afraid  of  the  very  shareholders 
he  stands  for;  and  all  but  one  of  them's  afraid — 
like  children  that  get  into  a  wood  at  night,  and 
start  at  every  rustle  of  the  leaves.  I  ask  you,  men — 
[he  pauses,  holding  out  his  hand  till  there  is  utter 
silence] — give  me  a  free  hand  to  tell  them:  "Go 
you  back  to  London.  The  men  have  nothing  for 
you!"  [A  murmuring.]  Give  me  that,  an'  I  swear 
to  you,  within  a  week  you  shall  have  from  London 
all  you  want. 

EVANS,  JAGO,  and  OTHERS.  A  free  hand!  Give 
him  a  free  hand!  Bravo — bravo! 

ROBERTS.  'T  is  not  for  this  little  moment  of 
time  we're  fighting  [the  murmuring  dies],  not  for 
ourselves,  our  own  little  bodies,  and  their  wants, 
't  is  for  all  those  that  come  after  throughout  all 
time.  [With  intense  sadness.]  Oh!  men — for  the 
love  o'  them,  don't  roll  up  another  stone  upon 
their  heads,  don't  help  to  blacken  the  sky,  an'  let 
the  bitter  sea  in  over  them.  They're  welcome  to 
the  worst  that  can  happen  to  me,  to  the  worst  that 
can  happen  to  us  all,  are  n't  they — are  n't  they? 
If  we  can  shake  [passionately]  that  white-faced 
monster  with  the  bloody  lips,  that  has  sucked  the 
life  out  of  ourselves,  our  wives,  and  children,  since 
the  world  began.  [Dropping  the  note  of  passion 


SC.  II 


Strife  231 


but  with  the  utmost  weight  and  intensity.]  If  we  have 
not  the  hearts  of  men  to  stand  against  it  breast  to 
breast,  and  eye  to  eye,  and  force  it  backward  till 
it  cry  for  mercy,  it  will  go  on  sucking  life;  and  we 
shall  stay  forever  what  we  are  [in  almost  a  whisper], 
less  than  the  very  dogs. 

[An    utter    stillness,    and    ROBERTS    stands 
rocking   his   body  slightly,   with   his   eyes 
burning  the  faces  of  the  crowd.] 
EVANS    and    JAGO.     [Suddenly.]     Roberts!     [The 
shout  is  taken  up.] 

[There  is  a  slight  movement  in  the  crowd, 
and    MADGE    passing    below    the    towing- 
path,  stops   by   the   platform,    looking   up 
at  ROBERTS.     A  sudden  doubting  silence] 
ROBERTS.     "Nature,"  says  that  old  man,   "give 
in  to  Nature."     I  tell  you,  strike  your  blow  in  Na- 
ture's face — an'  let  it  do  its  worst ! 

[He  catches  sight  of  MADGE,  his  brows  con- 
tract, he  looks  away.] 

MADGE.     [In  a  low  voice — close  to  the  platform.] 
Your  wife 's  dying! 

[ROBERTS  glares  at  her  as  if  torn  from  some 

pinnacle  of  exaltation.] 
ROBERTS.     [Trying    to    stammer    on.]    I    say    to 

you — answer  them — answer  them 

[He  is  drowned  by  the  murmur  in  the  crowd. 
THOMAS.     [Stepping    forward.]     Ton't    you    hear 
her,  then? 

ROBERTS.     What  is  it?  [A  dead  silence. 

THOMAS.     Your  wife,  man! 

[ROBERTS  hesitates,  then  with  a  gesture, 
he  leaps  down,  and  goes  away  below  the 
towing-path,  the  men  making  way  for 


232  Strife 


ACT  U 


him.  The  standing  bargeman  opens  and 
prepares  to  light  a  lantern.  Daylight  is 
fast  failing.] 

MADGE.  He  need  n't  have  hurried!  Annie  Roberts 
is  dead.  [Then  in  the  silence,  passionately. 

You    pack    of  blinded    hounds!     How   many   more 
women  are  you  going  to  let  to  die  ? 

[The  crowd  shrinks  back  from  her,  and  breaks 
up   in   groups,    with    a   confused,    uneasy 
movement.     MADGE  goes  quickly  away  be- 
low the  towing-path.     There  is  a  hush  as 
they  look  after  her.] 
LEWIS.     There's  a  spitfire,  for  ye! 
BULGIN.     [Growling.]    I  '11  smash  'er  jaw. 
GREEN.     If    I'd    a-been    listened    to,    that    poor 

woman 

THOMAS.  It 's  a  judgment  on  him  for  coing  against 
Chapel.  I  tolt  him  how  't  would  be! 

EVANS.  All  the  more  reason  for  sticking  by  'im. 
[A  cheer.]  Are  you  goin'  to  desert  him  now  'e  's 
down?  Are  you  going  to  chuck  him  over,  now 
'e  's  lost  'is  wife  ? 

[The  crowd  is  murmuring  and  cheering  all 

at  once.] 

Rous.  [Stepping  in  front  of  platform.]  Lost 
his  wife!  Aye!  Can't  ye  see?  Look  at  home, 
look  at  your  own  wives!  What's  to  save  them? 
Ye '11  have  the  same  in  all  your  houses  before 
long! 

LEWIS.     Aye,  aye! 

HENRY  Rous.      Right!  George,  right! 

[There  are  murmurs  of  assent. 

Rous.  It's  not  us  that's  blind,  it's  Roberts. 
How  long  will  ye  put  up  with  'im! 


SC.  II 


Strife  233 


HENRY   Rous,   BULGIN,   DAVIES.     Give    'im  the 
chuck!  [The  cry  is  taken  up. 

EVANS.     [Fiercely.]    Kick    a    man    that's    down? 
Down? 

HENRY  Rous.     Stop  his  jaw  there! 

[EVANS  throws  up  his  arm  at  a  threat  from 
BULGIN.     The  bargeman,  who  has  lighted 
the  lantern,  holds  it  high  above  his  head.] 
Rous.     [Springing    on    to    the    platform.]     What 
brought  him  down  then,  but  'is  own  black  obstinacy  ? 
Are  ye  goin'  to  follow  a  man  that  can't  see  better 
than  that  where  he 's  goin'  ? 
EVANS.     He's  lost  'is  wife. 

Rous.     An'    who's    fault's     that     but    his    own. 
'Ave  done  with   'im,  I  say,  before  he's  killed  your 
own  wives  and  mothers. 
DAVIES.     Down  'im! 
HENRY  Rous.     He's  finished! 
BROWN.     We've  had  enough  of  'im! 
BLACKSMITH.     Too  much! 

[The  crowd  takes  up  these  cries,  excepting 
only  EVANS,  JAGO,  and  GREEN,  who  is 
seen  to  argue  mildly  with  the  BLACK- 
SMITH.] 

Rous.     [Above    the    hubbub]    We'll    make    terms 
with  the  Union,  lads.  [Cheers. 

EVANS.     [Fiercely]     Ye  blacklegs! 
BULGIN.     [Savagely — squaring   up   to   him]    Who 
are  ye  callin'  blacklegs,  Rat? 

[EVANS  throws  up  his  fists,  parries  the  blow, 
and  returns  it.  They  fight.  The  bargemen 
are  seen  holding  up  the  lantern  and  enjoying 
the  sight.  Old  THOMAS  steps  forward  and 
holds  out  his  hands] 


234  Strife 


ACTII 


THOMAS.     Shame  on  your  strife ! 

[The  BLACKSMITH,  BROWN,  LEWIS,  and 
the  RED-HAIRED  YOUTH  pull  EVANS  and 
BULGIN  apart.  The  stage  is  almost  dark.] 

.  The  curtain  falls. 


ACT  III 

//  is  five  o'clock.  In  the  UNDERWOODS'  drawing- 
room,  which  is  artistically  furnished,  ENID  is 
sitting  on  the  sofa  working  at  a  baby's  frock. 
EDGAR,  by  a  little  spindle-legged  table  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  is  fingering  a  china-box.  His 
eyes  are  fixed  on  the  double-doors  that  lead  into 
the  dining-room. 

EDGAR.  [Putting  down  the  china-box,  and  glancing 
at  his  watch.}  Just  on  five,  they  're  all  in  there  wait- 
ing, except  Frank.  Where 's  he  ? 

ENID.  He 's  had  to  go  down  to  Gasgoyne's  about 
a  contract*.  Will  you  want  him  ? 

EDGAR.  He  can't  help  us.  This  is  a  director's 
job.  [Motioning  towards  a  single  door  half  hidden 
by  a  curtain.]  Father  in  his  room? 

ENID.     Yes. 

EDGAR.     I  wish  he'd  stay  there,  Enid. 

[ENID  looks  up  at  him. 
This  is  a  beastly  business,  old  girl? 

[He  takes  up  the  little  box  again  and  turns 
it  over  and  over.] 

ENID.  I  went  to  the  Roberts 's  this  afternoon, 
Ted. 

EDGAR.    That  was  n't  very  wise. 

ENID.     He 's  simply  killing  his  wife. 

EDGAR.    We  are  you  mean. 
335 


236  Strife 


ACT  III 


ENID.     [Suddenly.]     Roberts  ought  to  give  way! 

EDGAR.  There's  a  lot  to  be  said  on  the  men's 
side. 

ENID.  I  don't  feel  half  so  sympathetic  with  them 
as  I  did  before  I  went.  They  just  set  up  class  feel- 
ing against  you.  Poor  Annie  was  looking  dread- 
fully bad — fire  going  out,  and  nothing  fit  for  her 
to  eat.  [EDGAR  walks  to  and  fro. 

But  she  would  stand  up  for  Roberts.  When  you 
see  all  this  wretchedness  going  on  and  feel  you  can 
do  nothing,  you  have  to  shut  your  eyes  to  the  whole 
thing. 

EDGAR.     If  you  can. 

ENID.  When  I  went  I  was  all  on  their  side,  but 
as  soon  as  I  got  there  I  began  to  feel  quite  different 
at  once.  People  talk  about  sympathy  with  the 
working  classes,  they  don't  know  what  it  means  to 
try  and  put  it  into  practice.  It  seems  hopeless. 

EDGAR.     Ah!  well. 

ENID.  It 's  dreadful  going  on  with  the  men  in  this 
state.  I  do  hope  the  Dad  will  make  concessions. 

EDGAR.  He  won't.  [Gloomily.]  It's  a  sort  of 
religion  with  him.  Curse  it!  I  know  what 's  coming! 
He  '11  be  voted  down. 

ENID.     They  would  n't  dare! 

EDGAR.     They  will — they  're  in  a  funk. 

ENID.     [Indignantly.]     He'd  never  stand  it! 

EDGAR.  [With  a  shrug.]  My  dear  girl,  if  you're 
beaten  in  a  vote,  you've  got  to  stand  it. 

ENID.  Oh!  [She  gets  up  in  alarm.]  But  would 
he  resign? 

EDGAR.  Of  course!  It  goes  to  the  roots  of  his 
beliefs. 

ENID.     But  he's  so  wrapped  up  in  this  company, 


ACT  III 


Strife  237 


Ted!  There 'd  be  nothing  left  for  him!  It'd  be 
dreadful!  [EDGAR  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

Oh,  Ted,  he's  so  old  now!  You  mustn't  let  them! 

EDGAR.  [Hiding  his  feelings  in  an  outburst.] 
My  sympathies  in  this  strike  are  all  on  the  side  of 
the  men. 

ENID.  He's  been  Chairman  for  more  than  thirty 
years!  He  made  the  whole  thing!  And  think  of 
the  bad  times  they  've  had ;  it 's  always  been  he  who 
pulled  them  through.  Oh,  Ted,  you  must 

EDGAR.  What  is  it  you  want?  You  said  just 
now  you  hoped  he'd  make  concessions.  Now  you 
want  me  to  back  him  in  not  making  them.  This 
is  n't  a  game,  Enid! 

ENID.  [Hotly.]  It  is  n't  a  game  to  me  that  the 
Dad's  in  danger  of  losing  all  he  cares  about  in  life. 
If  he  won't  give  way,  and  he's  beaten,  it'll  simply 
break  him  down! 

EDGAR.  Did  n't  you  say  it  was  dreadful  going 
on  with  the  men  in  this  state? 

ENID.  But  can't  you  see,  Ted,  Father '11  never 
get  over  it!  You  must  stop  them  somehow.  The 
others  are  afraid  of  him.  If  you  back  him  up 

EDGAR.  [Putting  his  hand  to  his  head.]  Against 
my  convictions — against  yours!  The  moment  it 
begins  to  pinch  one  personally 

ENID.     It  is  n't  personal,  it's  the  Dad! 

EDGAR.  Your  family  or  yourself,  and  over  goes 
the  show! 

ENID.  [Resentfully.]  If  you  don't  take  it  seri- 
ously, I  do. 

EDGAR.  I  am  as  fond  of  him  as  you  are;  that's 
nothing  to  do  with  it. 

ENID.     We  can't  tell  about  the  men;  it 's  all  guess- 


238  Strife 


ACT  III 


work.     But  we  know  the  Dad  might  have  a  stroke 
any  day.     D'  you  mean  to  say  that  he  is  n't  more 

to  you  than 

EDGAR.     Of  course  he  is. 
ENID.     I  don't  understand  you  then. 
EDGAR.     H'm! 

ENID.     If  it  were  for  oneself  it  would  be  different, 
but  for  our  own  Father!    You  don't  seem  to  realise. 
EDGAR.     I  realise  perfectly. 
ENID.     It 's  your  first  duty  to  save  him. 
EDGAR.     I  wonder. 

ENID.  [Imploring.]  Oh,  Ted!  It's  the  only  in- 
terest he's  got  left;  it'll  be  like  a  death-blow  to 
him! 

EDGAR.     [Restraining  his  emotion.]    I  know. 

ENID.     Promise! 

EDGAR.     I  '11  do  what  I  can. 

[He  turns  to  the  double-doors. 
[The  curtained  door  is  opened,  and  ANTHONY 
appears.      EDGAR  opens  the  double-doors, 
and  passes  through.] 

[SCANTLEBURY'S  voice  is  faintly  heard:  "Past 

five\  we  shall  never  get  through — have  to 

eat  another  dinner  at   that  hotel!"     The 

doors  are  shut.     ANTHONY  walks  forward.] 

ANTHONY.     You've  been  seeing  Roberts,  I  hear. 

ENID.     Yes. 

ANTHONY.  Do  you  know  what  trying  to  bridge 
such  a  gulf  as  this  is  like? 

[ENID  puts  her  work  on  the  little  table,  and 

faces  him.] 

Filling  a  sieve  with  sand! 
ENID.     Don't! 
ANTHONY.     You   think  with   your  gloved   hands 


ACT  III 


Strife  239 


you  can  cure  the  trouble  of  the  century. 

[He  passes  on. 

ENID.     Father!    [ANTHONY   stops    at    the    double- 
doors.]        I  'm  only  thinking  of  you ! 

ANTHONY.     [More    softly.]    I    can    take    care    of 
myself,  my  dear. 

ENID.     Have  you  thought  what  '11  happen  if  you  're 
beaten — [she  points] — in  there? 
ANTHONY.     I  don't  mean  to  be. 
ENID.     Oh!     Father,  don't  give  them    a  chance. 
You're  not  well;  need  you  go  to  the  meeting  at  all? 
ANTHONY.     [With  a  grim  smile.]    Cut  and  run? 
ENID.     But  they'll  out-vote  you! 
ANTHONY.     [Putting  his  hand  on  the  doors.]    We 
shall  see! 

ENID.     I  beg  you,  Dad! 

[ANTHONY  looks  at  her  softly. 
Won't  you? 

[ANTHONY  shakes  his  head.     He  opens  the 

doors.     A  buzz  of  voices  comes  in.] 
SCANTLEBURY.     Can  one  get  dinner  on  that  6.30 
train  up? 

TENCH.     No,  sir,  I  believe  not,  sir. 
WILDER.     Well,  I  shall  speak  out;  I  've  had  enough 
of  this. 

EDGAR.     [Sharply.]    What? 

[It  ceases  instantly.  ANTHONY  passes  through, 
closing  the  doors  behind  him.  ENID  springs 
to  them  with  a  gesture  of  dismay.  She 
puts  her  hand  on  the  knob,  and  begins 
turning  it;  then  goes  to  the  fireplace,  and 
taps  her  foot  on  the  fender.  Suddenly 
she  rings  the  bell.  FROST  comes  in  by 
the  door  that  leads  into  the  hall.] 


240  Strife 


ACT  HI 


FROST.     Yes,  M'm? 

ENID.  When  the  men  come,  Frost,  please  show 
them  in  here;  the  hall  's  cold. 

FROST.     I  could  put  them  in  the    pantry,  M'm. 

ENID.  No.  I  don't  want  to — to  offend  them; 
they  're  so  touchy. 

FROST.  Yes,  M'm.  [Pause.]  Excuse  me,  Mr. 
Anthony's  'ad  nothing  to  eat  all  day. 

ENID.     I  know  Frost. 

FROST.  Nothin'  but  two  whiskies  and  sodas, 
M'm. 

ENID.  Oh !  you  ought  n't  to  have  let  him  have 
those. 

FROST.  [Gravely.]  Mr.  Anthony  is  a  little  diffi- 
cult, M'm.  It's  not  as  if  he  were  a  younger  man, 
an'  knew  what  was  good  for  'im;  he  will  have  his 
own  way. 

ENID.     I  suppose  we  all  want  that. 

FROST.  Yes,  M'm.  [Quietly.]  Excuse  me  speakin' 
about  the  strike.  I  'm  sure  if  the  other  gentle- 
men were  to  give  up  to  Mr.  Anthony,  and  quietly 
let  the  men  'ave  what  they  want,  afterwards,  that'd 
be  the  best  way.  I  find  that  very  useful  with  him 
at  times,  M'm.  [ENID  shakes  her  head. 

If  he's  crossed,  it  makes  him  violent  [with  an  air 
of  discovery],  and  I've  noticed  in  my  own  case, 
when  I  'm  violent  I  'm  always  sorry  for  it  afterwards. 

ENID.  [With  a  smile.]  Are  you  ever  violent, 
Frost? 

FROST.     Yes,  M'm;  oh!   sometimes  very  violent. 

ENID.     I  've  never  seen  you. 

FROST.     [Impersonally.]     No,    M'm;    that    is    so. 

[ENID  fidgets  towards  the  back  of  the  door. 

[With  feeling.]     Bern'    with    Mr.    Anthony,   as   you 


ACT  III 


Strife  241 


know,  M'm,  ever  since  I  was  fifteen,  it  worries  me 
to  see  him  crossed  like  this  at  his  age.  I've  taken 
the  liberty  to  speak  to  Mr.  Wanklin  [dropping  his 
voice] — seems  to  be  the  most  sensible  of  the  gentle- 
men— but  'e  said  to  me:  "That's  all  very  well,  Frost, 
but  this  strike's  a  very  serious  thing,"  'e  said.  "Seri- 
ous for  all  parties,  no  doubt,"  I  said,  "but  yumour 
'im,  sir,"  I  said,  "yumour  'im.  It's  like  this,  if 
a  man  comes  to  a  stone  wall,  'e  does  n't  drive  'is 
'ead  against  it,  'e  gets  over  it."  "Yes,"  'e  said, 
"you'd  better  tell  your  master  that."  [FROST  looks 
at  his  nails.]  That's  where  it  is,  M'm.  I  said  to 
Mr.  Anthony  this  morning:  "Is  it  worth  it,  sir?" 
"Damn  it,"  he  said  to  me,  "Frost!  Mind  your  own 
business,  or  take  a  month's  notice!"  Beg  pardon, 
M'm,  for  using  such  a  word. 

ENID.  [Moving  to  the  double-doors,  and  listening.] 
Do  you  know  that  man  Roberts,  Frost? 

FROST.  Yes,  M'm;  that's  to  say,  not  to  speak 
to.  But  to  look  at  'im  you  can  tell  what  he's  like. 

ENID.     [Stopping.]    Yes? 

FROST.  He's  not  one  of  these  'ere  ordinary 
'armless  Socialists.  'E's  violent;  got  a  fire  inside 
'im.  What  I  call  "personal."  A  man  may  'ave 
what  opinions  'e  likes,  so  long  as  'e  's  not  personal ; 
when  'e  's  that  'e  's  not  safe. 

ENID.  I  think  that 's  what  my  father  feels  about 
Roberts. 

FROST.  No  doubt,  M'm,  Mr.  Anthony  has  a 
feeling  against  him. 

[ENID   glances  at  him  sharply,   but  finding 

him  in  perfect  earnest,   stands  biting  her 

lips,    and    looking    at    the    double -doors.] 

ItV  a  regular  right  down  struggle  between  the  two. 


242  Strife 


ACT  III 


I've  no  patience  with  this  Roberts,  from  what  I 
'ear  he's  just  an  ordinary  workin'  man  like  the  rest 
of  'em.  If  he  did  invent  a  thing  he's  no  worse  off 
than  'undreds  of  others.  My  brother  invented  a  new 
kind  o'  dumb-waiter — nobody  gave  him  anything 
for  it,  an'  there  it  is,  bein'  used  all  over  the  place. 
[ENID  moves  closer  to  the  double-doors. 
There's  a  kind  o'  man  that  never  forgives  the  world, 
because  'e  was  n't  born  a  gentleman.  What  I  say 
is — no  man  that's  a  gentleman  looks  down  on  an- 
other because  'e  'appens  to  be  a  class  or  two  above 
'im,  no  more  than  if  'e  'appens  to  be  a  class  or  two 
below. 

ENID.     [With    slight    impatience.]    Yes,    I    know, 
Frost,  of  course.     Will  you  please  go  in  and  ask  if 
they  '11  have  some  tea ;  say  I  sent  you. 
FROST.     Yes,  M'm. 

[He  opens  the  doors  gently  and  goes  in.  There 
is  a  momentary  sound  of  earnest,  rather 
angry  talk.] 

WILDER.     I  don't  agree  with  you. 
WANKLIN.     We  've  had  this  over  a  dozen  times. 
EDGAR.     [Impatiently.]    Well,  what's  the  proposi- 
tion? 

SCANTLEBURY.     Yes,  what  does  your  father  say? 
Tea?     Not  for  me,  not  for  me! 

WANKLIN.     What    I    understand    the    Chairman 

to  say  is  this 

[FROST    re-enters    closing    the    door    behind 

him.] 

ENID.     [Moving  from  the  door.]    Won't  they  have 
any  tea,  Frost? 

[She  goes  to  the  little  table,  and  remains 
motionless,  looking  at  the  baby's  frock.] 


ACT  III 


Strife  243 


[A  parlourmaid  enters  from  the  hall. 
PARLOURMAID.     A  Miss  Thomas,  M'm 
ENID.     [Raising  her  head.]     Thomas?     What  Miss 

Thomas — d'  you  mean  a ? 

PARLOURMAID.     Yes,  M'm. 

ENID.     [Blankly.]    Oh!    Where  is  she? 

PARLOURMAID.     In  the  porch.  . 

ENID.     I  don't  want [She  hesitates.] 

FROST.     Shall  I  dispose  of  her,  M'm? 
ENID.     I  11  come  out.     No,  show  her  in  here,  Ellen. 
[The    PARLOUR    MAID    and   FROST    go    out. 
ENID   pursing   her   lips,   sits   at   the   little 
table,    taking   up    the    baby's   frock.     The 
PARLOURMAID  ushers  in  MADGE  THOMAS 
and    goes    out;     MADGE     stands    by     the 
door.] 

ENID.     Come  in.     What  is  it.     What  have  you 
come  for,  please? 

MADGE.     Brought  a  message  from  Mrs.  Roberts. 

ENID.     A  message?     Yes. 

MADGE.     She  asks  you  to  look  after  her  mother. 

ENID.     I  don't  understand. 

MADGE.     [Sullenly.]     That 's  the  message. 

ENID.     But — what — why? 

MADGE.     Annie  Roberts  is  dead. 

[There  is  a  silence. 

ENID.     [Horrified.]    But   it's   only   a   little   more 
than  an  hour  since  I  saw  her. 
MADGE.     Of  cold  and  hunger. 
ENID.     [Rising.]     Oh!   that's  not  true!  the  poor 
thing's  heart —     What  makes  you   look  at  me  like 
that?     I  tried  to  help  her. 

MADGE.     [With   suppressed   savagery.]     I    thought 
you'd  like  to  know. 


244  Strife 


ACT  III 


ENID.  [Passionately.]  It's  so  unjust!  Can't  you 
see  that  I  want  to  help  you  all? 

MADGE.  I  never  harmed  any  one  that  had  n't 
harmed  me  first. 

ENID.  [Coldly.]  What  harm  have  I  done  you? 
Why  do  you  speak  to  me  like  that? 

MADGE.  [With  the  bitterest  intensity.]  You  come 
out  of  your  comfort  to  spy  on  us!  A  week  of 
hunger,  that 's  what  you  want ! 

ENID.  [Standing  her  ground.]  Don't  talk  non- 
sense ! 

MADGE.  I  saw  her  die;  her  hands  were  blue  with 
the  cold. 

ENID.  [With  a  movement  of  grief.]  Oh!  why 
wouldn't  she  let  me  help  her?  It's  such  senseless 
pride! 

MADGE.  Pride 's  better  than  nothing  to  keep 
your  body  warm. 

ENID.  [Passionately.]  I  won't  talk  to  you !  How 
can  you  tell  what  I  feel?  It's  not  my  fault  that  I 
was  born  better  off  than  you. 

MADGE.     We  don't  want  your  money. 

ENID.  You  don't  understand,  and  you  don't 
want  to;  please  to  go  away! 

MADGE.  [Balefully.]  You've  killed  her,  for  all 
your  soft  words,  you  and  your  father 

ENID.  [With  rage  and  emotion.]  That's  wicked! 
My  father  is  suffering  himself  through  this  wretched 
strike. 

MADGE.  [With  sombre  triumph.]  Then  tell  him 
Mrs.  Roberts  is  dead!  That  '11  make  him  better. 

ENID.     Go  away! 

MADGE.  When  a  person  hurts  us  we  get  it  back 
on  them. 


ACT  in 


Strife  245 


[She  makes  a  sudden  and  swift  movement 
towards  ENID,  fixing  her  eyes  on  the  child's 
frock  lying  across  the  little  table.  ENID 
snatches  the  frock  up,  as  though  it  were 
the  child  itself.  They  stand  a  yard  apart, 
crossing  glances.] 

MADGE.     [Pointing  to  the  frock  with  a  little  smile.] 
Ah!    You   felt   that!    Lucky   it's  her  mother — not 
her  children — you  've  to  look  after,  is  n't   it.     She 
won't  trouble  you  long! 
ENID.     Go  away! 
MADGE.     I  've  given  you  the  message. 

[She    turns   and    goes    out    into    the    hall. 

ENID,  motionless  till  she  has  gone,  sinks 

down  at  the  table,  bending  her  head  over 

the  frock,   which  she  is  still  clutching   to 

her.     The    double-doors    are  opened,   and 

ANTHONY    comes    slowly    in;    he    passes 

his  daughter,  and  lowers  himself  into  an 

arm-chair.     He  is  very  flushed.] 

ENID.     [Hiding  her  emotion — anxiously.]    What  is 

it,  Dad?     [ANTHONY  makes  a  gesture,  but  does  not 

speak.]     Who  was  it? 

[ANTHONY    does    not    answer.     ENID    going 
to   the  double-doors  meets  EDGAR  coming 
in.     They   speak    together    in   low    tones.] 
What  is  it,  Ted? 

EDGAR.     That  fellow  Wilder!     Taken  to  person- 
alities!    He  was  downright  insulting. 
ENID.     What  did  he  say? 

EDGAR.  Said,  Father  was  too  old  and  feeble 
to  know  what  he  was  doing!  The  Dad's  worth 
six  of  him ! 

ENID.     Of  course  he  is.         [They  look  at  ANTHONY. 


246  Strife 


ACT  III 


[The  doors  open  wider,  WANKLIN   appears 

with  SCANTLEBURY.] 

SCANTLEBURY.  [Sotto  voce.]  I  don't  like  the 
look  of  this! 

WANKLIN.  [Going  forward.]  Come,  Chairman! 
Wilder  sends  you  his  apologies.  A  man  can't  do 
more. 

[WILDER,  followed  by  TENCH,  comes  in,  and 

goes  to  ANTHONY.] 

WILDER.     [Glumly.]    I   withdraw  my  words,   sir. 

I  'm  sorry.  [ANTHONY  nods  to  him. 

ENID.     You    haven't    come    to    a    decision,    Mr. 

Wanklin?  [WANKLIN  shakes  his  head. 

WANKLIN.     We're  all  here,   Chairman;  what  do 

you  say?     Shall  we  get  on  with  the  business,   or 

shall  we  go  back  to  the  other  room? 

SCANTLEBURY.  Yes,  yes;  let's  get  on.  We  must 
settle  something. 

[He  turns  from  a  small  chair,  and  settles 
himself  suddenly  in  the  largest  chair 
with  a  sigh  of  comfort.] 
[WILDER  and  WANKLIN  also  sit;  and  TENCH, 
drawing  up  a  straight-backed  chair  close 
to  his  Chairman,  sits  on  the  edge  of  it 
with  the  minute-book  and  a  stylographic 
pen.] 

ENID.  [Whispering.]  I  want  to  speak  to  you  a 
minute,  Ted.  [They  go  out  through  the  double-doors. 
WANKLIN.  Really,  Chairman,  it 's  no  use  soothing 
ourselves  with  a  sense  of  false  security.  If  this 
strike  's  not  brought  to  an  end  before  the  General 
Meeting,  the  shareholders  will  certainly  haul  us 
over  the  coals. 

SCANTLEBURY.     [Stirring.]    What — what's  that? 


ACT  HI 


Strife  247 


WANKLIN.     I  know  it  for  a  fact. 

ANTHONY.     Let  them! 

WILDER.     And  get  turned  out? 

WANKLIN.  [To  ANTHONY.]  I  don't  mind  mar- 
tyrdom for  a  policy  in  which  I  believe,  but  I  object 
to  being  burnt  for  some  one  else's  principles. 

SCANTLEBURY.  Very  reasonable — you  must  see 
that,  Chairman. 

ANTHONY.  We  owe  it  to  other  employers  to 
stand  firm. 

WANKLIN.     There 's  a  limit  to  that. 

ANTHONY.     You  were  all  full  of  fight  at  the  start. 

SCANTLEBURY.  [With  a  sort  of  groan,]  We  thought 
the  men  would  give  in,  but  they — have  n't! 

ANTHONY.     They  will! 

WILDER.  [Rising  and  pacing  up  and  down.]  1 
can't  have  my  reputation  as  a  man  of  business 
destroyed  for  the  satisfaction  of  starving  the  men 
out.  [Almost  in  tears.]  I  can't  have  it!  How 
can  we  meet  the  shareholders  with  things  in  the 
state  they  are? 

SCANTLEBURY.     Hear,  hear — hear,  hear! 

WILDER.  [Lashing  himself.]  If  any  one  expects 
me  to  say  to  them  I  've  lost  you  fifty  thousand  pounds 
and  sooner  than  put  my  pride  in  my  pocket  1 11 
lose  you  another.  [Glancing  at  ANTHONY.]  It's 
— it's  unnatural!  I  don't  want  to  go  against  you, 
sir 

WANKLIN.  [Persuasively.]  Come  Chairman,  we 
're  not  free  agents.  We're  part  of  a  machine. 
Our  only  business  is  to  see  the  Company  earns  as 
much  profit  as  it  safely  can.  If  you  blame  me  for 
want  of  principle :  I  say  that  we  're  Trustees.  Rea- 
son tells  us  we  shall  never  get  back  in  the  saving 


248  Strife 


ACT  III 


of  wages  what  we  shall  lose  if  we  continue  this  strug- 
gle— really,  Chairman,  we  must  bring  it  to  an  end, 
on  the  best  terms  we  can  make. 
ANTHONY.     No. 

[There  is  a  pause  of  general  dismay. 
WILDER.     It 's  a  deadlock  then.     [Letting  his  hands 
drop  with  a  sort  of  despair.]    Now  I  shall  never  get 
off  to  Spain! 

WANKLIN.     [Retaining    a    trace    of    irony.]    You 
hear  the  consequences  of  your  victory,  Chairman? 
WILDER.     [With   a   burst  of  feeling.]    My   wife's 
ill! 

SCANTLEBURY.     Dear,   dear!    You   don't  say  so. 
WILDER.     If  I  don't  get  her  out  of  this  cold,  I 
won't  answer  for  the  consequences. 

[Through    the    double-doors     EDGAR    comes 

in  looking  very  grave.] 

EDGAR.  [To  his  Father.]  Have  you  heard  this, 
sir?  Mrs.  Roberts  is  dead! 

[Every  one  stares  at  him,  as  if  trying  to  gauge 

the  importance  of  this  news.] 

Enid  saw  her  this  afternoon,  she  had  no  coals,  or 
food,  or  anything.     It 's  enough ! 

[There  is  a  silence,  every  one  avoiding  the 
other's  eyes,  except  ANTHONY,  who  stares 
hard  at  his  son.] 

SCANTLEBURY.  You  don't  suggest  that  we  could 
have  helped  the  poor  thing? 

WILDER.  [Flustered.]  The  woman  was  in  bad 
health.  Nobody  can  say  there's  any  responsibility 
on  us.  At  least — not  on  me. 

EDGAR.     [Hotly]    I  say  that  we  are  responsible. 
ANTHONY.     War  is  war! 
EDGAR.     Not  on  women! 


ACT  III 


Strife  249 


WANKLIN.  It  not  infrequently  happens  that 
women  are  the  greatest  sufferers. 

EDGAR.  If  we  knew  that,  all  the  more  responsi- 
bility rests  on  us. 

ANTHONY.     This  is  no  matter  for  amateurs. 

EDGAR.  Call  me  what  you  like,  sir.  It's  sick- 
ened me.  We  had  no  right  to  carry  things  to  such 
a  length. 

WILDER.  I  don't  like  this  business  a  bit — that 
Radical  rag  will  twist  it  to  their  own  ends;  see  if 
they  don't!  They'll  get  up  some  cock  and  bull 
story  about  the  poor  woman's  dying  from  starvation. 
I  wash  my  hands  of  it. 

EDGAR.     You  can't.     None  of  us  can. 

SCANTLEBURY.  [Striking  his  fist  on  the  arm  of 
his  chair.]  But  I  protest  against  this 

EDGAR.  Protest  as  you  like,  Mr.  Scantlebury, 
it  won't  alter  facts. 

ANTHONY.     That 's  enough. 

EDGAR.  [Facing  him  angrily.]  No,  sir.  I  tell 
you  exactly  what  I  think.  If  we  pretend  the  men 
are  not  suffering,  it 's  humbug ;  and  if  they  're  suffering, 
we  know  enough  of  human  nature  to  know  the 
women  are  suffering  more,  and  as  to  the  children — 
well — it 's  damnable ! 

[SCANTLEBURY  rises  from  his  chair. 
I  don't  say  that  we  meant  to  be  cruel,  I  don't  say 
anything  of  the  sort;  but  I  do  say  it's  criminal  to 
shut  our  eyes  to  the  facts.  We  employ  these  men, 
and  we  can't  get  out  of  it.  I  don't  care  so  much 
about  the  men,  but  I'd  sooner  resign  my  position 
on  the  Board  than  go  on  starving  women  in  this 
way. 

[All  except   ANTHONY   are  now  upon   their 


250  Strife 


ACT  IH 


feet,    ANTHONY    sits    grasping    the    arms 
of  his  chair  and  staring  at  his  son.] 

SCANTLEBURY.  I  don't — I  don't  like  the  way 
you're  putting  it,  young  sir. 

WANKLIN.     You're  rather  overshooting  the  mark. 

WILDER.     I  should  think  so  indeed! 

EDGAR.  [Losing  control.]  It's  no  use  blinking 
things !  If  you  want  to  have  the  death  of  women 
on  your  hands — 7  don't ! 

SCANTLEBURY.     Now,  now,  young  man! 

WILDER.  On  our  hands?  Not  on  mine,  I  won't 
have  it! 

EDGAR.  We  are  five  members  of  this  Board; 
if  we  were  four  against  it,  why  did  we  let  it  drift 
till  it  came  to  this?  You  know  perfectly  well  why — 
because  we  hoped  we  should  starve  the  men  out. 
Well,  all  we  've  done  is  to  starve  one  woman  out! 

SCANTLEBURY.  [Almost  hysterically.]  I  protest, 
I  protest!  I'm  a  humane  man — we're  all  humane 
men! 

EDGAR.  [Scornfully.]  There 's  nothing  wrong  with 
our  humanity.  It 's  our  imaginations,  Mr.  Scantlebury. 

WILDER.  Nonsense!  My  imagination's  as  good 
as  yours. 

EDGAR.     If  so,  it  is  n't  good  enough. 

WILDER.     I  foresaw  this ! 

EDGAR.  Then  why  did  n't  you  put  your  foot 
down ! 

WILDER.     Much  good  that  would  have  done. 

[He  looks  at  ANTHONY. 

EDGAR.  If  you,  and  I,  and  each  one  of  us  here 
who  say  that  our  imaginations  are  so  good 

SCANTLEBURY.     [Flurried.]     I  never  said  so. 

EDGAR.     [Paying    no    attention.]    — had    put    our 


ACT  III 


Strife  251 


feet  down,  the  thing  would  have  been  ended  long 
ago,  and  this  poor  woman's  life  would  n't  have  been 
crushed  out  of  her  like  this.  For  all  we  can  tell 
there  may  be  a  dozen  other  starving  women. 

SCANTLEBURY.  For  God's  sake,  sir,  don't  use 
that  word  at  a — at  a  Board  meeting;  it's — it's 
monstrous. 

EDGAR.     I  will  use  it,  Mr.  Scantlebury. 

SCANTLEBURY.  Then  I  shall  not  listen  to  you. 
I  shall  not  listen !  It 's  painful  to  me. 

[He  covers  his  ears. 

WANKLIN.  None  of  us  are  opposed  to  a  settle- 
ment, except  your  Father. 

EDGAR.  I'm  certain  that  if  the  shareholders 
knew 

WANKLIN.  I  don't  think  you'll  find  their  im- 
aginations are  any  better  than  ours.  Because  a 
woman  happens  to  have  a  weak  heart 

EDGAR.  A  struggle  like  this  finds  out  the  weak 
spots  in  everybody.  Any  child  knows  that.  If 
it  had  n't  been  for  this  cut-throat  policy,  she  need 
n't  have  died  like  this ;  and  there  would  n't  be  all 
this  misery  that  any  one  who  is  n't  a  fool  can  see 
is  going  on. 

[Throughout  the  foregoing  ANTHONY  has  eyed 
his  son;  he  now  moves  as  though  to  rise, 
but  stops  as  EDGAR  speaks  again.] 
1   don't  defend    the  men,   or  myself,   or  anybody. 

WANKLIN.  You  may  have  to!  A  coroner's  jury 
of  disinterested  sympathisers  may  say  some  very 
nasty  things.  We  must  n't  lose  sight  of  our  posi- 
tion. 

SCANTLEBURY.  [Without  uncovering  his  ears.] 
Coroner's  jury!  No,  no,  it's  not  a  case  for  that! 


252  Strife 


ACT  in 


EDGAR.  I  Ve  had  enough  of  cowardice. 
WANKLIN.  Cowardice  is  an  unpleasant  word, 
Mr.  Edgar  Anthony.  It  will  look  very  like  cowar- 
dice if  we  suddenly  concede  the  men's  demands 
when  a  thing  like  this  happens;  we  must  be  care- 
ful! 

WILDER.  Of  course  we  must.  We've  no  know- 
ledge of  this  matter,  except  a  rumour.  The  proper 
course  is  to  put  the  whole  thing  into  the  hands  of 
Harness  to  settle  for  us;  that's  natural,  that's  what 
we  should  have  come  to  any  way. 

SCANTLEBURY.  [With  dignity.]  Exactly!  [Turn- 
ing to  EDGAR.]  And  as  to  you,  young  sir,  I  can't 
sufficiently  express  my — my  distaste  for  the  way 
you've  treated  the  whole  matter.  You  ought  to 
withdraw!  Talking  of  starvation,  talking  of  cow- 
ardice! Considering  what  our  views  are!  Except 
your  own  father — we're  all  agreed  the  only  policy 
is — is  one  of  goodwill — it's  most  irregular,  it's 
most  improper,  and  all  I  can  say  is  it's — it's  given 

me  pain 

[He  places  his  hand  over  his  heart. 
EDGAR.     [Stubbornly.]    I  withdraw  nothing. 

[He  is  about  to  say  more  when  SCANTLEBURY 
once    more    covers    up    his    ears.     TENCH 
suddenly  makes  a  demonstration  with  the 
minute-book.     A     sense    of    having    been 
engaged    in    the   unusual   comes   over    all 
of  them,  and  one  by  one  they  resume  their 
seats.     EDGAR  alone  remains  on  his  feet.] 
WILDER.     [With   an   air  of  trying   to   wipe  some- 
thing out.]    I  pay  no  attention  to  what  young  Mr. 
Anthony    has    said.      Coroner's    jury!     The    idea's 
preposterous.     I — I    move   this   amendment  to   the 


ACT  HI 


Strife  253 


Chairman's  Motion:  That  the  dispute  be  placed 
at  once  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Simon  Harness  for  settle- 
ment, on  the  lines  indicated  by  him  this  morning. 
Any  one  second  that?  [TENCH  writes  in  his  book. 

WANKLIN.     I  do. 

WILDER.  Very  well,  then;  I  ask  the  Chairman 
to  put  it  to  the  Board. 

ANTHONY.  [With  a  great  sigh — slowly.]  We  have 
been  made  the  subject  of  an  attack.  [Looking  round 
at  WILDER  and  SCANTLEBURY  with  ironical  contempt.] 
I  take  it  on  my  shoulders.  I  am  seventy-six  years 
old.  I  have  been  Chairman  of  this  Company  since 
its  inception  two-and-thirty  years  ago.  I  have 
seen  it  pass  through  good  and  evil  report.  My 
connection  with  it  began  in  the  year  that  this  young 
man  was  born. 

[EDGAR  bows  his  head.     ANTHONY,  gripping 

his  chair,  goes  on.] 

I  have  had  do  to  with  "men"  for  fifty  years;  I've 
always  stood  up  to  them;  I  have  never  been  beaten 
yet.  I  have  fought  the  men  of  this  Company  four 
times,  and  four  times  I  have  beaten  them.  It  has 
been  said  that  I  am  not  the  man  I  was.  [He  looks 
at  Wilder.]  However  that  may  be,  I  am  man 
enough  to  stand  to  my  guns. 

[His  voice  grows  stronger.     The  double-doors 

are  opened.     ENID   slips  in,  followed  by 

UNDERWOOD,  who  restrains  her.] 

The  men  have  been  treated  justly,  they  have  had 

fair  wages,   we   have   always   been   ready   to   listen 

to   complaints.     It  has  been  said  that  times  have 

changed ;  if  they  have,  I  have  not  changed  with  them. 

Neither  will  I.     It  has  been  said  that  masters  and 

men    are   equal!     Cant!     There   can    only    be    one 


254  Strife 


ACT  III 


master  in  a  house!  Where  two  men  meet  the  bet- 
ter man  will  rule.  It  has  been  said  that  Capital 
and  Labour  have  the  same  interests.  Cant!  Their 
interests  are  as  wide  asunder  as  the  poles.  It  has 
been  said  that  the  Board  is  only  part  of  a  machine. 
Cant!  We  are  the  machine;  its  brains  and  sinews; 
it  is  for  us  to  lead  and  to  determine  what  is  to  be 
done,  and  to  do  it  without  fear  or  favour.  Fear 
of  the  men!  Fear  of  the  shareholders!  Fear  of 
our  own  shadows!  Before  I  am  like  that,  I  hope 
to  die. 

[He  pauses,  and  meeting  his  son's  eyes,  goes 

on.] 

There  is  only  one  way  of  treating  "men" — with 
the  iron  hand.  This  half  and  half  business,  the  half 
and  half  manners  of  this  generation,  has  brought 
all  this  upon  us.  Sentiment  and  softness,  and  what 
this  young  man,  no  doubt,  would  call  his  social 
policy.  You  can't  eat  cake  and  have  it!  This 
middle-class  sentiment,  or  socialism,  or  whatever 
it  may  be,  is  rotten.  Masters  are  masters,  men 
are  men!  Yield  one  demand,  and  they  will  make 
it  six.  They  are  [he  smiles  grimly]  like  Oliver 
Twist,  asking  for  more.  If  I  were  in  their  place 
I  should  be  the  same.  But  I  am  not  in  their  place. 
Mark  my  words:  one  fine  morning,  when  you  have 
given  way  here,  and  given  way  there — you  will 
find  you  have  parted  with  the  ground  beneath  your 
feet,  and  are  deep  in  the  bog  of  bankruptcy;  and 
with  you,  floundering  in  that  bog,  will  be  the  very 
men  you  have  given  way  to.  I  have  been  accused 
of  being  a  domineering  tyrant,  thinking  only  of 
my  pride — I  am  thinking  of  the  future  of  this  coun- 
try, threatened  with  the  black  waters  of  confusion, 


ACT  III 


Strife  255 


threatened  with  mob  government,  threatened  with 
what  I  cannot  see.  If  by  any  conduct  of  mine  I 
help  to  bring  this  on  us,  I  shall  be  ashamed  to  look 
my  fellows  in  the  face. 

[ANTHONY    stares    before    him,    at   what    he 
cannot  see,  and  there  is  perfect  stillness. 
FROST   comes  in  from   the  hall,   and   all 
but  ANTHONY  look  round  at  him  uneasily.] 
FROST.     [To  his  master.]    The  men  are  here,  sir. 
[ANTHONY  makes  a  gesture  of  dismissal. 
Shall  I  bring  them  in,  sir? 
ANTHONY.     Wait! 

[FROST  goes  out,  ANTHONY  turns  to  face  his 

son.] 

I  come  to  the  attack  that  has  been  made  upon  me. 
[EDGAR,   with  a  gesture  of  deprecation,   re- 
mains motionless  with   his   head   a   little 
bowed.] 

A  woman  has  died.  I  am  told  that  her  blood  is  on 
my  hands;  I  am  told  that  on  my  hands  is  the  star- 
vation and  the  suffering  of  other  women  and  of 
children. 

EDGAR.  I  said  "  on  our  hands,"  sir. 
ANTHONY.  It  is  the  same.  [His  voice  grows 
stronger  and  stronger,  his  feeling  is  more  and  more 
made  manifest.]  I  am  not  aware  that  if  my  adversary 
suffer  in  a  fair  fight  not  sought  by  me,  it  is  my  fault. 
If  I  fall  under  his  feet — as  fall  I  may — I  shall  not 
complain.  That  will  be  my  look-out — and  this  is — 
his.  I  cannot  separate,  as  I  would,  these  men  from 
their  women  and  children.  A  fair  fight  is  a  fair 
fight!  Let  them  learn  to  think  before  they  pick 
a  quarrel! 

EDGAR.     [In  a  low  voice.]     But  is  it  a  fair  fight, 


256  Strife 


ACT  III 


Father?     Look  at  them,  and  look  at  us!     They've 
only  this  one  weapon! 

ANTHONY.     [Grimly.]     And     you  're    weak-kneed 
enough  to  teach  them  how  to  use  it!     It  seems  the 
fashion  nowadays  for  men  to  take  their    enemy's 
side.     I  have  not  learnt  that  art.     Is  it  my  fault 
that  they  quarrelled  with  their  Union  too? 
EDGAR.     There  is  such  a  thing  as  Mercy. 
ANTHONY.     And  Justice  comes  before  it. 
EDGAR.     What  seems  just  to  one  man,  sir,  is  injus- 
tice to  another. 

ANTHONY.  [With  suppressed  passion.]  You  accuse 
me  of  injustice — of  what  amounts  to  inhumanity — 

of  cruelty 

[EDGAR  makes  a  gesture  of  horror — a  general 

frightened  movement.] 
WANKLIN.     Come,  come,  Chairman. 
ANTHONY.     [In    a    grim    voice.]    These    are    the 
words  of  my  own  son.     They  are  the  words  of  a 
generation  that  I   don't  understand;   the  words  of 
a  soft  breed. 

[A   general  murmur.     With  a  violent  effort 

ANTHONY  recovers  his  control.] 
EDGAR.     [Quietly.]    I  said  it  of  myself,  too,  Father. 
[A    long   look    is    exchanged    between    them, 
and  ANTHONY  puts  out  his  hand  with  a 
gesture   as   if   to   sweep   the   personalities 
away;    then   places   it   against   his    brow, 
swaying  as  though  from  giddiness.     There 
is  a  movement  towards  him.     He  moves 
them  back.] 

ANTHONY.  Before  I  put  this  amendment  to  the 
Board,  I  have  one  more  word  to  say.  [He  looks 
from  face  to  face.]  If  it  is  carried,  it  means  that  we 


ACT  III 


Strife  257 


shall  fail  in  what  we  set  ourselves  to  do.  It  means 
that  we  shall  fail  in  the  duty  that  we  owe  to  all 
Capital.  It  means  that  we  shall  fail  in  the  duty  that 
we  owe  ourselves.  It  means  that  we  shall  be  open 
to  constant  attack  to  which  we  as  constantly  shall 
have  to  yield.  Be  under  no  misapprehension — run 
this  time,  and  you  will  never  make  a  stand  again! 
You  will  have  to  fly  like  curs  before  the  whips  of 
your  own  men.  If  that  is  the  lot  you  wish  for,  you 
will  vote  for  this  amendment. 

[He  looks  again,  from  face  to  face,  finally 
resting  his  gaze  on  EDGAR;  all  sit  with 
their  eyes  on  the  ground.  ANTHONY  makes 
a  gesture,  and  TENCH  hands  him  the  book. 
He  reads.] 

"Moved  by  Mr.  Wilder,  and  seconded  by  Mr.  Wank- 
lin:  'That  the  men's  demands  be  placed  at  once 
in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Simon  Harness  for  settlement 
on  the  lines  indicated  by  him  this  morning. ' 
[With  sudden  vigour.]  Those  in  favour:  Signify 
the  same  in  the  usual  way ! 

[For  a  minute  no  one  moves;  then  hastily, 
just  as  ANTHONY  is  about  to  speak,  WIL- 
DER's  hand  and  WANKLIN'S  are  held 
up,  then  SCANTLEBURY  's,  and  last  EDGAR'S 
who  does  not  lift  his  head.] 

Contrary?  [ANTHONY  lifts  his  own  hand. 

[In  a  clear  voice.]  The  amendment  is  carried.  I 
resign  my  position  on  this  Board. 

[ENID  gasps,  and  there  is  dead  silence. 
ANTHONY  sits  motionless,  his  head  slow- 
ly drooping;  suddenly  he  heaves  as  though 
the  whole  of  his  life  had  risen  up  within 
him.) 

X7 


258  Strife 


ACT  III 


Fifty  years!    You  have   disgraced   me,   gentlemen. 
Bring  in  the  men! 

[He  sits  motionless,  staring  before  him.     The 
Board  draws  hurriedly  together,  and  forms 
a  group.     TENCH  in  a  frightened  manner 
speaks    into    the    hall.     UNDERWOOD    al- 
most forces  ENID  from  the  room.] 
WILDER.     [Hurriedly.]    What's    to    be    said    to 
them?     Why   isn't    Harness    here?     Ought    we    to 

see  the  men  before  he  comes?     I  don't 

TENCH.     Will  you  come  in,  please? 

[Enter  THOMAS,  GREEN,  BULGIN,  and  Rons, 
who  file  up  in  a  row  past  the  little  table. 
TENCH  sits  down  and  writes.  All  eyes 
are  fixed  on  ANTHONY,  who  makes  no 
sign.] 

WANKLIN.  [Stepping  up  to  the  little  table,  with 
nervous  cordiality.]  Well,  Thomas,  how's  it  to  be? 
What's  the  result  of  your  meeting? 

Rous.  Sim  Harness  has  our  answer.  He'll  tell 
you  what  it  is.  We're  waiting  for  him.  He'll 
speak  for  us. 

WANKLIN.     Is  that  so,  Thomas? 
THOMAS.     [Sullenly.]     Yes.     Roberts  will  not  pe 
coming,  his  wife  is  dead. 

SCANTLEBURY.    Yes,  yes!   Poorwoman!  Yes!  Yes! 
FROST.     [Entering  from   the   hall.]    Mr.    Harness, 
sir! 

[As  HARNESS  enters  he  retires. 

[HARNESS  has  a  piece  of  paper  in  his  hand, 

he    bows    to    the    Directors,    nods    towards 

the  men,  and  takes  his  stand  behind  the 

little  table  in  the  very  centre  of  the  room.] 

HARNESS.     Good  evening,  gentlemen. 


ACT  III 


Strife  259 


[TENCH,  with  the  paper  he  has  been  writing, 
joins    him,    they    speak    together    in    low 
tones.] 
WILDER.     We've  been  waiting  for  you,  Harness. 

Hope  we  shall  come  to  some 

FROST.     [Entering  from  the  hall.]     Roberts ! 

[He  goes. 

[ROBERTS  comes  hastily  in,  and  stands  star- 
ing at  ANTHONY.  His  face  is  drawn 
and  old.] 

ROBERTS.  Mr.  Anthony,  I  am  afraid  I  am  a 
little  late,  I  would  have  been  here  in  time  but  for 
something  that — has  happened.  [To  the  men.]  Has 
anything  been  said? 

THOMAS.  No!  But,  man,  what  made  ye  come? 
ROBERTS.  Ye  told  us  this  morning,  gentlemen, 
to  go  away  and  reconsider  our  position.  We  have 
reconsidered  it;  we  are  here  to  bring  you  the  men's 
answer.  [To  ANTHONY.]  Go  ye  back  to  London. 
We  have  nothing  for  you.  By  no  jot  or  tittle  do 
we  abate  our  demands,  nor  will  we  until  the  whole 
of  those  demands  are  yielded. 

[ANTHONY  looks  at  him  but  does  not  speak. 
There  is  a  movement  amongst  the  men  as 
though  they  were  bewildered.] 
HARNESS.     Roberts! 

ROBERTS.  [Glancing  fiercely  at  him,  and  back  to 
ANTHONY.]  Is  that  clear  enough  for  ye?  Is  it 
short  enough  and  to  the  point?  Ye  made  a  mistake 
to  think  that  we  would  come  to  heel.  Ye  may  break 
the  body,  but  ye  cannot  break  the  spirit.  Get  back 
to  London,  the  men  have  nothing  for  ye? 

[Pausing  uneasily  he  takes  a  step  towards 
the  unmoving  ANTHONY.] 


26o  Strife 


ACT  III 


EDGAR.     We're  all  sorry  for  you,  Roberts,  but- 


ROBERTS.  Keep  your  sorrow,  young  man.  Let 
your  father  speak! 

HARNESS.  [With  the  sheet  of  paper  in  his  hand, 
speaking  from  behind  the  little  table.]  Roberts ! 

ROBERTS.  [To  ANTHONY,  with  passionate  in- 
tensity.] Why  don't  ye  answer? 

HARNESS.     Roberts! 

ROBERTS.     [Turning  sharply.]    What  is  it? 

HARNESS.  [Gravely.]  You're  talking  without  the 
book;  things  have  travelled  past  you. 

[He  makes  a  sign  to  TENCH,  who  beckons  the 
Directors.  They  quickly  sign  his  copy  of 
the  terms.] 

Look  at  this,  man!  [Holding  up  his  sheet  of  paper.] 
"Demands  conceded,  with  the  exception  of  those  re- 
lating to  the  engineers  and  furnacemen.  Double  wages 
for  Saturday's  overtime.  Night-shifts  as  they  are." 
These  terms  have  been  agreed.  The  men  go  back 
to  work  again  to-morrow.  The  strike  is  at  an  end. 

ROBERTS.  [Reading  the  paper,  and  turning  on 
the  men.  They  shrink  back  from  him,  all  but  Rous, 
who  stands  his  ground.  With  deadly  stillness.]  Ye 
have  gone  back  on  me  ?  I  stood  by  ye  to  the  death ; 
ye  waited  for  that  to  throw  me  over! 

[The  men  answer,  all  speaking  together. 

Rous.     It's  a  lie! 

THOMAS.     Ye  were  past  endurance,  man. 

GREEN.     If  ye'd  listen  to  me 

BULGIN.     [Under  his  breath.]     Hold  your  jaw! 

ROBERTS.     Ye  waited  for  that  I 

HARNESS.  [Taking  the  Director's  copy  of  the 
terms,  and  handing  his  own  to  TENCH.]  That's 
enough,  men.  You  had  better  go. 


ACT  III 


Strife  261 


[The  men  shuffle  slowly,    awkwardly   away. 
WILDER.     [In  a  low,  nervous  voice.]     There 's  noth- 
ing to  stay  for  now,  I  suppose.     [He  follows  to  the 
door.]    I  shall  have  a  try  for  that  train!     Coming, 
Scantlebury  ? 

SCANTLEBURY.     [Following  with  WANKLIN.]    Yes, 

yes;  wait  for  me.  [He  stops  as  ROBERTS  speaks. 

ROBERTS.     [To     ANTHONY.]     But    ye    have    not 

signed  them  terms !     They  can't  make  terms  without 

their  Chairman!     Ye  would  never  sign  them  terms! 

[ANTHONY  looks  at  him  without  speaking. 

Don't  tell  me  ye  have!  for  the  love  o'  God!    [With 

passionate  appeal.]    I  reckoned  on  ye ! 

HARNESS.  [Holding  out  the  Director's  copy  of 
the  terms.]  The  Board  has  signed ! 

[ROBERTS  looks  dully  at  the  signatures — 
dashes  the  paper  from  him,  and  covers 
up  his  eyes.] 

SCANTLEBURY.  [Behind  his  hand  to  TENCH.] 
Look  after  the  Chairman!  He's  not  well;  he's  not 
well — he  had  no  lunch.  If  there's  any  fund  started 
for  the  women  and  children,  put  me  down  for — 
for  twenty  pounds. 

[He  goes  out  into  the  hall,  in  cumbrous  haste; 

and  WANKLIN,  who  has  been  staring  at 

ROBERTS   and   ANTHONY  with   twitchings 

of  his  face,  follows.     EDGAR  remains  seated 

on  the  sofa,  looking  at  the  ground;  TENCH, 

returning    to    the    bureau,    writes    in    his 

minute-book.     HARNESS  stands  by  the  little 

table,  gravely  watching  ROBERTS.] 

ROBERTS.     Then   you're   no  longer   Chairman   of 

this    Company!     [Breaking   into    half -mad    laughter.] 

Ah!     ha — ah,  ha,   ha!     They've  thrown  ye  over — - 


262  Strife 


ACT  III 


thrown  over  their  Chairman:  Ah — ha — ha!  [With 
a  sudden  dreadful  calm.]  So — they've  done  us  both 
down,  Mr.  Anthony? 

[ENID,    hurrying    through    the    double-doors, 

comes  quickly  to  her  father,] 

ANTHONY.     Both  broken  men,  my  friend  Roberts! 
HARNESS.     [Coming   down   and   laying   his   hands 
on   ROBERTS'S   sleeve.]      For   shame,    Roberts!      Go 
home  quietly,  man;   go  home! 

ROBERTS.       [Tearing    his    arm    away.]      Home? 
[Shrinking    together — in    a    whisper.]      Home! 

ENID.     [Quietly  to  her  father.]    Come  away,  dear! 
Come  to  your  room ! 

[ANTHONY  rises  with  an  effort.  He  turns 
to  ROBERTS  who  looks  at  him.  They 
stand  several  seconds,  gazing  at  each  other 
fixedly;  ANTHONY  lifts  his  hand,  as  though 
to  salute,  but  lets  it  fall.  The  expression 
of  ROBERTS'S  face  changes  from  hostility 
to  wonder.  They  bend  their  heads  in 
token  of  respect.  ANTHONY  turns,  and 
slowly  walks  towards  [the  curtained  door. 
Suddenly  he  sways  as  though  about  to  fall, 
recovers  himself,  and  is  assisted  out  by 
EDGAR  and  ENID;  UNDERWOOD  follows, 
but  stops  at  the  door.  ROBERTS  remains 
motionless  for  several  seconds,  staring 
intently  after  ANTHONY,  then  goes  out 
into  the  hall.] 

TENCH.     [Approaching    HARNESS.]    It's    a    great 

weight   off   my   mind,    Mr.    Harness!     But   what   a 

painful  scene,  sir!  [He  wipes  his  brow. 

[HARNESS,  pale   and   resolute,    regards   with 

a  grim  half -smile  the  quavering  TENCH.] 


ACT  III 


Strife  263 


It's  all  been  so  violent!  What  did  he  mean  by: 
"Done  us  both  down?"  If  he  has  lost  his  wife, 
poor  fellow,  he  ought  n't  to  have  spoken  to  the  Chair- 
man like  that! 

HARNESS.  A  woman  dead;  and  the  two  best 
men  both  broken! 

TENCH.  [Star ing  at  him — suddenly  excited.]  D'you 
know,  sir — these  terms,  they're  the  very  same  we 
drew  up  together,  you  and  I,  and  put  to  both  sides 
before  the  fight  began?  All  this — all  this — and — 
and  what  for? 

HARNESS.  [In  a  slow  grim  voice.]  That's  where 
the  fun  comes  in! 

[UNDERWOOD  without  turning  from  the  door 
makes  a  gesture  of  assent.] 

The  curtain  falls. 


THE  END 


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